Faith: the Vampire Slayer
by J.D. Cunegan
Summary: <html><head></head>After the events of "Not Fade Away," Faith Lehane finds herself in the city of Cleveland, where a Hellmouth has grown in strength and the undead masses have increasingly called the place home. While fighting demons - both inner and outer - she encounters mysterious people from her past and faces an uncertain future.</html>
1. Chapter 1: Gotta Have

**Chapter 1: Gotta Have**

**September 2005 – Downtown, Cleveland, Ohio**

This wasn't how James had planned to spend his evening. All dressed up for a night out - maybe a bite to eat, a drink or two - but now he was running for his life. Turning a corner and running as fast along the sidewalk as his $500 dress shoes allowed, James glanced over his shoulder.

He couldn't see his pursuer, but he could hear them. The roar of the motorcycle was unmistakable, even lost in the din of downtown traffic. James had to keep running; that traffic was the only thing keeping distance between himself and the motorcycle.

Deep down, he knew how futile this was, yet survival instinct took over. James probably should've stopped running minutes ago, but he kept going. Arms flailed at his sides as he clumsily shucked his gray blazer, tossing it to the street before turning another corner. Two corners later, his navy blue tie also fell to the ground.

Tires squealed as the motorcycle cut a hard right at the intersection, ignoring the red light. The bike squeezed between a furniture delivery truck and a black convertible, the man behind the wheel honking the horn so loud that it drowned out his shouted obscenity. The motorcycle's engine revved again, tires leaving black marks on the pavement, the bike pushing 100 miles an hour as it weaved through traffic.

Cars swerved and horns echoed into the night. A bulky taxi driver who hadn't seen a razor in at least a month shook his fist. Another hard right, and the rider could see the target. The man was still running as fast as before; his stamina was impressive.

Glancing over his shoulder again, James yelped. The bike was within sight, despite all of his best efforts. Whoever was after him was good at this - possibly a professional. Seeing no way out, James ducked into a dark alley to his right. Common sense said dark alleys were the last place to go, but the urgency of the moment overrode any other thought.

The motorcycle slowed, turning into the alley. The lone headlight shone in James' face, and he rose his right arm to shield his eyes. The light died once the motor shut off, and the figure dismounted. James watched with his back against the brick wall as the figure removed its black leather gloves, laying them on the seat. Boots crunched over the gravel on the ground.

"Please," he whimpered with a quivering lip. "Please don't kill me…you already got all the others. What more do you want?"

The figure cracked its knuckles as it approached, before stopping inches from James. The concealed head cocked to the side, before the figure rose its arms to remove the helmet. Brown hair spilled from the helmet, revealing a woman with a dark smile. She tossed the helmet to the ground with a smirk.

Fear gradually mixed with anger, and James' face shifted with a growl. Eyes turned yellow and feral, eyebrows giving way to pale ridges. Cheekbones sunk in, fangs sprouting in his mouth. James snarled, crouching into a defensive position as he watched the woman produce a stake.

"Slayer," he growled, finding newfound courage and curling his hands into fists.

"As in Faith, the Vampire," the woman quipped with a sideways grin, her free hand shooting out toward James' nose, cracking it before the vampire had a chance to react.

James' head snapped back and he growled again, before instinct took over and the vampire swung his left arm in a counter attack. Faith dodged the blow before driving the dull end of the stake into his stomach. James doubled over as Faith caught him in the chin with an uppercut, and James staggered back into the wall.

James managed to duck a roundhouse kick, and Faith grunted when her foot collided with the brick wall. Bits of brick crumbled, bouncing off James' shoulders as he rose again, grabbing the Slayer by her jacket and tossing her to the ground. He pounced on Faith before she could get up, flipping her to her back and punching her in the nose.

Faith burst into laughter, even as the vampire's fist rammed into her face. Clutching the stake in her grasp, the Slayer clocked James across his left temple. As the vampire stumbled, Faith got back to her feet and shoved her left foot into his stomach.

By the time James gathered his bearings enough to prepare another attack, he felt the sharp end of the wood pierce his dead flesh, crack through his ribcage, and sink into the small mass that once had been his heart. His eyes grew wide, and James gasped before he exploded in a mess of dust and ash.

Exhaling, Faith pocketed the stake as she heard something metal hit the ground. Frowning, she dropped to a knee to pick up the object. The frown deepened when the moonlight hit the silver face of the object.

It was a police badge - one that belonged to Lt. Carrington.

With a sigh, Faith stood and pocketed the badge. She glanced at the moon, shaking her head.

"Shit…"

* * *

><p><strong>October 2003 – Council Headquarters, London, England<strong>

"That's one way to put it, yes."

Faith Lehane stared at the map of the United States projected against a white dry-erase board. The room in which she, Rupert Giles, and Robin Wood sat resembled one of the classrooms at Sunnydale High School - back when there _was_ a Sunnydale High School. Despite her aversion to classrooms as a child, the Slayer had no qualms about sitting in the front row of seats, elbows resting on the white desk as she stared at the map.

A black dot over northeast Ohio caught Faith's attention. She'd heard stories of a Hellmouth in Cleveland, similar to the center of mystical convergence that once called Sunnydale, California home before everyone in the room helped destroy it.

Of course, a side effect of that little apocalyptic aversion was that Sunnydale was no more, pretty much just a hole in the ground a few hours north of Los Angeles.

"I don't get it," Wood said, arms folded over his chest. The fluorescent lights bounced off his bald head. "You're telling me this thing is getting _stronger_?"

"Precisely," Giles, now head of the Council of Watchers, answered, removing his circle-frame glasses. The sleeves of his beige button-down were rolled up to his elbows. "Reports of…supernatural activity in northeastern Ohio have doubled in the months since we left Sunnydale. A few of the…other Watchers feel this is a…a re-directing of mystical energy, so to speak."

Wood nodded. "Plug one hole in the dam, place more pressure on all the others."

Faith frowned. "But…none of the others are doin' this." She sat back in her seat, arms folded over her torso. "Wouldn't all the other Hellmouths be spikin' too?"

"One would think," Giles shrugged, placing his glasses on the desk behind him. "But my sources are pointing specifically to Cleveland."

Wood got up from his seat, approaching the front of the room. He crossed his arms again when he came within inches of the screen, the back of his head a mesh of colors as he stood in the way of the projection. His eyes focused on Cleveland, his gaze narrowing.

The Hellmouth in Sunnydale had been harrowing enough - even more so, considering Wood had an office directly above the opening. The last thing he wanted was another round with the ubervamps.

"What's our presence in Cleveland?" he asked.

Giles and Faith exchanged looks, before the Slayer rose and joined them in the front of the room. She stood to Wood's right, slipping her left arm around his waist. He flinched momentarily, but immediately relaxed.

"I'm sorry?"

"You know, Slayers, Watchers, demon hunters," Wood explained. "Maybe Cleveland's seeing the same amount of activity as everywhere else, but we don't have the resources there to stop it."

Putting his glasses back on, Giles ran a hand through his gray hair. "It's possible," he mused. "Willow said there were six new Slayers in Moscow, and Xander told of another eight in Cairo."

Faith glanced at the Watcher. "So how many in Cleveland?"

The head of the Council visibly cringed. "As far as we know? One in nearby Akron…and she doesn't have a Watcher yet. In point of fact, nearly two out of every three Slayers worldwide is without a Watcher."

Wood folded his arms again with a sigh. "That's less than ideal."

"Yes," Giles removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with the hem of his shirt, "one of the side effects of re-building the Council. We're…rather lacking in manpower."

"Our boy Caleb," Faith muttered, staring at the map. "The gift that just keeps on givin'."

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Faith and Robin's apartment, Cleveland, Ohio<strong>

Wood's kitchen table was buried in paperwork, maps and yellow legal pads strewn across its surface. Balled-up pieces of paper littered the floor. A nearby trash bin overflowed with yet more paper. Each time Robin Wood took a step, his feet pushed aside paper.

Eyes fixated on the map, Wood spoke into a digital voice recorder.

"Recent uptick in vampire activity on and around the campus of Cleveland State University seems to indicate that is the Hellmouth's origin," he dictated, a finger tracing a line between two push pins on the map. "Given that the Sunnydale Hellmouth was located under the local high school, I'm not surprised Cleveland's might also be under a school. For now, I'm considering the location under an educational establishment to be purely coincidental. And…kinda creepy. Wood out."

The front door to the apartment swung open as Wood turned off the recorder, pocketing it and folding up the map. He bent down to grab a couple pieces of paper, tossing them at the trash can - only to watch them tumble back to the floor.

Faith leaned against the doorway into the kitchen, arms crossed. She watched her boyfriend - it still felt weird to call him that - fiddle with the mess. Any other night, the Slayer would playfully chide Wood for the clutter. She was too preoccupied for witty banter right now, though.

"Any luck?"

"Do guesses count?" Wood set down a legal pad and turned to face the Slayer and slid his hands into his pockets. "Cause that's all I've got right now." Wood studied Faith's features for a few moments, noting the crease above her eyebrows was a little more pronounced than usual. It might've been the light, but Wood felt he knew the Slayer well enough to know it was something else entirely.

"What about you? How was patrol?"

The Slayer's eyes darted for the ground; for a moment, Faith wondered if she should tell Wood what happened. She had it on good authority that her legal troubles were over - despite having broken out of prison almost two years prior. Granted, she did it to help save an old friend and avert an Apocalypse, but something told Faith the authorities wouldn't go for that. The idea of getting involved again with the police didn't excite her, especially because she knew the inevitable question of how she came across Lt. Carrington's badge would surface.

But she knew the truth would eventually out. Better to spill the beans now and get it over with.

Faith produced the silver badge from the inside pocket of her coat, handing it to Wood without saying a word. Wood took the badge, squinting as he examined it. His stomach sank when Wood realized what he was holding; at first, he couldn't bring himself to look Faith in the eye. He would never admit it, but Wood's first thought was whether or not Faith had killed the owner of this badge.

Given her past, how could that thought _not_ cross his mind? It hadn't yet become a bone of contention in their relationship, but Robin would've been lying if he said he thought it would never be an issue.

The look on Faith's face didn't help. Was that guilt in her eyes? She was still so hard to read.

"I didn't kill him," she almost whispered. "At least, I don't think I did."

Figuring it was best to let Faith direct this conversation, Wood set the badge on the table. "What happened?"

Pushing off the doorway, Faith unfolded her arms and stuffed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. Her shoulders briefly hunched. "I was tailin' a vamp downtown," she explained, struggling to find the words. "Cornered him in an alley, we threw down and he went poof."

Wood's eyebrows shot up. "That's it?"

Instinct made Faith defensive, her eyes flashing in anger before her shoulders relaxed. Wood wasn't attacking her; he hadn't yet in the time they'd known each other, so why would he start now? Faith hated how her past and her insecurities made her assume the worst about Wood, but at least she was getting good at keeping that to herself.

So far.

"Yeah," he said. "After I dusted him, that hit the ground."

Wood grabbed the badge and examined it again. His gaze narrowed; he really didn't like where this was going. "You think you staked this…Lt. Carrington?"

Again, the Slayer shrugged her shoulders. She began to pace, her black boots clomping against the floor. Faith always paced when she was scared and didn't want to admit it. "I dunno. Could be him. Could be the vamp I dusted killed him and stole it."

Wood shook his head. "Either way, it's only a matter of time before the police come snooping around."

The Slayer's eyes grew wide, and Faith stopped in her tracks. She shot Wood an alarmed look before running her fingers through her hair. Returning her hands to her back pockets, Faith's eyes darted around the kitchen before finally settling on her boyfriend.

"Yeah," she muttered. "Yeah, you're right."

"Faith," Wood approached the Slayer and put a hand on her shoulder, "you don't have anything to worry about. Remember? Angel took care of all your legal problems last year."

Backing out of Wood's touch, Faith grimaced. "So he says," she shot back with a hint of anger. "_You_ really wanna believe the guy?"

"He's never lied to you before."

"He took over Wolfram & Hart," she practically growled. "It's just as good as a lie."

Wood sighed again as Faith turned and walked into the living room. He followed, grabbing the badge and stuffing it into his pocket. He understood why Rupert Giles and a lot of the others no longer trusted Angel after his sudden career change, but he thought Faith was beyond that; he'd always assumed Angel's hold over Faith could survive anything.

"We have to do something about this," he argued. "One way or another, the cops are gonna find out about Carrington. You want them to find out on their own?"

Faith shook her head, crouching in front of a large black chest in the corner. Pushing the lid open, the Slayer grabbed the stake on her right hip and the dagger sheathed to her left calf and tossed both weapons into the chest. She closed the chest and stayed in a crouch.

Without looking at Wood, she said, "I can't go to the cops. I can't."

Though sympathetic to Faith's concerns, Wood couldn't bring himself to keep quiet about the whole thing. He remembered his late mother, herself a Slayer, once telling him that the cover-up was always worse than the crime. No crime had been committed here - unless it was now illegal to kill vampires - but Wood knew keeping things quiet would only make matters worse.

One way or another, Lt. Carrington was dead. Dead cops were no laughing matter.

Pulling the badge out of his pocket again, Wood studied it. He had to do something, he just wasn't sure what. Maybe he could give Giles a call, get some advice. Anything but silence. He knew keeping quiet would end badly for everyone.

"Well, if you don't," he warned, "I will."

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Downtown Cleveland Precinct, Cleveland, Ohio<strong>

Though Samantha Blanchard was originally from northern England, she'd lived in America for virtually her entire adult life. She moved to East Lansing, Michigan when she was 18 to enroll at Michigan State University - a "friend of the family" had provided the tuition money. Samantha, who grew up with more nannies than actual parents, studied criminal justice.

Fast-forward six years. Samantha toiled away at her desk at the downtown Cleveland precinct, pouring over paperwork related to one of the several unsolved murder cases. This most recent case, involving a Cleveland State freshman from nearby Akron, began as a missing persons case…until the body was discovered the night before in a dumpster behind Jacobs Field.

The joys of working homicide.

Samantha hated paperwork, almost as much as she hated leaving cases unsolved. The department had gone months without a lead in Lt. Carrington's disappearance, and the lack of progress was making everyone cranky. This latest round of paperwork - logging evidence for a future case in court - did little to help her mood, and Samantha gritted her teeth when she heard someone clear their throat.

Glancing up from her work, Samantha saw two people standing on the other side of her desk. One was a scruffy young man wearing a black three-piece suit that was way above anyone's pay grade in this building, standing next to a black-haired woman covered in a charcoal blazer and white blouse, clutching a leather briefcase in her right hand.

The blonde cop arched her eyebrows when she saw the briefcase. Etched in the top, in yellow letters: Wolfram & Hart.

Samantha leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," the man faked a smile. "My name's Kenneth McDonald and this is Sonja Bishop. We're with—"

"—Wolfram & Hart, yes," Samantha interrupted with a dismissive wave. "I _really_ hope that's not money in your suitcase, because last I checked, bribing a police officer is a crime. One I'd like to think is beneath even you."

Kenneth smirked while Sonja showed no emotion. She placed the briefcase on Samantha's desk, pushing a manila folder out of the way. The folder fell to the floor, spilling its contents. The female lawyer caught a quick glimpse of crime scene photos, felt a smile threaten the corners of her mouth when she saw the carnage. Someone had themselves a bit of fun.

"Detective Blanchard," Kenneth answered in mock protest, "I'm hurt that you would accuse us of such a thing. I thought we were on the same side."

Samantha's eyes narrowed. "Your firm convinced a judge to let a serial killer walk last month after he butchered 12 people in a retirement home," she spat. "If we're on the same side, Mr. McDonald, then I'm afraid I need to switch teams. Now what is it you're after?"

Sonja opened the briefcase and produced a black dossier. Handing it to the officer, the lawyer explained, "We've caught word of a fugitive in town. Convicted murderer, busted out of an L.A. correctional facility couple years ago."

Samantha flipped open the dossier, scanning over the documents. She ignored the picture attached to the top of the page with a paper clip, instead focusing on the details. There it all was…one confirmed murder charge in Sunnydale, California, a couple other murders in Sunnydale police thought were related, a murder charge in Los Angeles…this woman sounded like a handful.

But one detail bugged the detective.

"According to this, she's been cleared of everything…with the help of _your firm_."

Sonja offered a humorless smile. "Well, our Los Angeles branch has made some questionable choices in recent months. There's a reason the place turned to rubble."

Leaning forward, Kenneth rested his hands on the desk. "If you wanna sit on your high horse and pretend you're so much better than us, go right ahead. But when it comes to this girl, we're on the same side. She's a murderer, and we don't want her on the streets anymore than you."

Closing the dossier, Samantha sat back. Skeptical didn't begin to describe how she felt. "Funny, seems like she'd be right up your alley."

"Hm." Kenneth watched as Sonja closed the briefcase and grabbed it off the desk. He reached into the breast pocket of his blazer, producing a business card and placing it on top of the dossier. "Well, don't say we didn't warn you."

As the lawyers left, Samantha grabbed the business card and stuffed it into a desk drawer before opening the dossier. She found a blank page in her legal pad with a sigh, grabbing a pen. The detective's eyes finally caught the picture and her heart skipped a beat. With a frown, Samantha dropped her pen and removed the picture from the rest of the paperwork.

The woman's pale face, framed by dark hair, tugged at the officer. She looked into the woman's eyes; the fear in them was palpable, even in stasis. Samantha couldn't shake a haunting familiarity; had she seen this woman on the news years before? She remembered hearing about an escaped convict in California on the news, but it got drowned out in all the other commotion.

What was it about this woman?

Grabbing the phone, and cradling it between her shoulder and her ear, Samantha pressed a button. Once the line picked up, she spoke, her eyes still trained on the photograph. "Chuck, it's Sam. I need a background check.

"See if we have anything on a Faith Lehane. L-E-H-A-N-E. Let me know as soon as possible."

**August 2005 – What Used to be Sunnydale, California**

* * *

><p>The stars were bright in the sky over what used to be the small town of Sunnydale, California; without all those street lights cluttering the ground, anyone who dared travel along the large crater could see the kaleidoscope of light above. Almost two years after the Hellmouth closed - taking the town with it - some of the Earth still smoldered.<p>

There were no bodies amidst the rubble; aside from those who stayed behind to fight the forces of evil, the town's residents left before everything was leveled. Had anyone stayed, they would've likely been incinerated.

Illyria stood at the lip of the crater, a fallen "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign at her feet. Her wide blue eyes fixated on the center of the giant hole, blue and brown hair waving in the light breeze. The Old One's head cocked awkwardly to the right, the expression on her face static.

"This place," Illyria muttered. "I can still feel what it once was."

"Yeah," Spike answered, puffing on the cigarette trapped between his lips. The platinum blonde vampire blew smoke into the night air, shaking his head and stuffing his hands in the pockets of his black leather trenchcoat.

"Barrel of bleeding laughs, this place was."

Illyria's head darted to the right, her gaze fixed on Spike. Another tense twitch of muscles, and the Old One's head returned to the crater. The demon was still getting used to operating within the limitations of a human body. It wasn't entirely pleasant.

"You know of the Hellmouth."

"Please," Spike scoffed, flicking the butt of his cigarette into the crater. "I _lived_ here. Hell, I _died_ here. Came here to kill the Slayer, left, came back - not really sure why - fell in love."

Crouching, Illyria ran her left hand over the dirt. A gust of wind whipped up dust; the Earth was dry. It had not rained here in months. "A vampire who knows love…I thought it was impossible."

"Yeah, well," Spike shrugged, "I'm kinda known for the impossible."

The vampire watched Illyria as she studied her surroundings. She grabbed a handful of dirt, wide eyes staring at the dusted Earth as it crumbled between her fingers and fell back to the ground. Spike wondered just how much of the mystical energy remained; there was obviously some, since the Old One could feel it.

"Closing the Hellmouth destroyed this village," Illyria stood again and turned her attention to Spike.

"That it did, pet," the vampire mused. Spike often wondered what the mundane world's explanation for the eradication of an entire town had been. Human explanation for the supernatural had always been a bit absurd - vampire attacks were often called gangs hopped up on PCP. Spike wondered…did everyone just shrug and say Sunnydale fell in a bad earthquake, or were they a little more imaginative?

"Don't imagine Hellmouths bother you," he cast a sideways glance at Illyria. In the little more than a year since the Old One returned, rooting Winifred Burkle out of her thin frame and destroying her soul in the process, looking at Illyria didn't get any easier.

To this day, Spike still missed Fred. Time was not healing this particular wound. Sometimes, the vampire wondered why he kept spending his time with the blue-haired creature. But seeing as how Illyria's last guide to this world was dead, and the former demigod had proven herself useful in the battle against the Black Thorn, Spike considered it a moral obligation.

But it didn't mean he had to like it.

"In my time, this entire plane of existence was a Hellmouth," Illyria remembered with a hint of disdain in her voice. "Humans were but play things. Vampires were lepers among us, annoying pests to be swatted away without another thought. My kind ruled with a relentless will."

Eyebrows arched, Spike scoffed and fished another cigarette from the crumpled pack in his coat. Lighting it, Spike closed his silver lighter and shook his head. "Right," he blew the first drag into the air. Every time Illyria started pining for the good old days, Spike got more uncomfortable.

Not that she could really do anything to return to those days, but the thought sent a shiver down the vampire's spine.

Illyria rose again. "There are others," she said. "I can feel the energy spreading."

"Lotta others," Spike agreed. "One in Cleveland, Moscow, Cairo…all over the world."

"So you did not save the world," the Old One shot the vampire a pointed gaze.

"Well, not forever," he argued. "Just for a little bit."

Illyria returned her gaze to the crater, head darting back and forth. She extended a hand, as if reaching for something in the air that Spike couldn't see. She closed her eyes and took in a sharp breath. Her hand balled into a fist, before the fingers extended again. Her eyes flew open.

"There are other energies here. The magicks still course through the dirt." She shot another look Spike's way. "Why did you bring me here?"

The vampire shrugged, flicking another cigarette butt into the crater. He sucked in his cheeks. "Dunno," he admitted. "Just sentimental, I guess."

Illyria cocked her head to the side. "You miss her."

Spike frowned. What did Fred have to do with this? "Yeah," he said. "You know that, pet."

"Not Winifred." Illyria stared into the crater. "The woman you loved. The one you came back to Sunnydale for."

When the vampire said nothing, the Old One pressed: "Yet you do not go after her. You are free of your obligations. You no longer fight at Angel's side. You could travel wherever you wish. Why do you not find this woman, return to her?"

"Because," the vampire sighed, "Buffy never felt that way about me. Never will."

Illyria stared at the ground at Spike's feet. "So you wander aimlessly, living out your infinite nights."

"Not aimless, love," Spike lit another cigarette and fishing a note from his coat pocket. "I'm going to Cleveland."

Illyria took the note from Spike, unfolding it and scanning the words. The Old One returned her gaze to the vampire, head cocking to the side again. "Who is Rupert Giles?"

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Downtown, Cleveland, Ohio<strong>

If there was one thing Faith had grown accustomed to in her years of slaying, it was the stench of the newly dead. Sometimes the smell meant a vampire was near; others, it indicated a new victim. When she was first called, Faith hated the smell. She lost count of how many times she had to duck into the dark alleys of Boston to vomit after catching a whiff.

The smell didn't bother her stomach anymore - years of being surrounded by I - but the Slayer still didn't like it. Maybe because it was a reminder of her past; then again, maybe it was just a horrible smell.

One that filled her nostrils at the moment.

Ducking into an alley behind Quicken Loans Arena, Faith pulled a stake from her denim jacket. The smell grew stronger with each step she took. Her nerves were still frayed from her earlier conversation with Wood; on the one hand, the Slayer felt like Robin going to the cops would be a betrayal, but she also understood his reasoning.

Faith would be the first to admit - to herself, anyway - that she wasn't the most reasonable person in the world when it came to law enforcement. She felt like she'd been granted a reprieve when she busted out of prison, and she thought she'd made good on that second chance by helping get Angel back and then helping close the Sunnydale Hellmouth.

Even the idea of Angel wiping her legal slate clean was appealing, but she no longer fully trusted him. If there was one thing Faith struggled with, it was moral quandaries. Everything in the early part of Faith's life had been cut and dry, black and white. This gray area stuff was still a hassle.

The smell grew stronger yet, causing Faith to scrunch her nose in disgust. She tightened the grip on her stake, training her ears for any sound out of the ordinary. The night was silent, save a siren wailing in the distance. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the din of the alley; clouds covered the moon.

The Slayer felt her foot brush against something. She stopped in her tracks, the smell almost strong enough to make her gag. Heart pounding in her chest, Faith looked down at the ground. She saw a foot, no longer attached to its leg.

As her eyes followed a trail of blood, the dread washed over her. A human body, disfigured beyond recognition, sat propped against the brick wall. The face was practically burned off, the chest cavity gaping. The victim's flesh had been shredded off, its sternum snapped in two. The heart was missing. One lung sat in the victim's left hand.

"Ugh…"

The Slayer was about to kneel before the body for a closer inspection when the siren registered in her senses. The sound was louder than before, the whine growing closer. Faith swallowed a lump in her throat, her fingers trembling as she dropped the stake. Was it an ambulance? A squad car? Was it coming to the alley?

Faith stayed as still as she could, shaking and hoping the darkness of the alley would shield her. She closed her eyes, holding her breath as the siren built up to its loudest point, before the ambulance sped past the alley's opening and the wailing dissipated anew.

With a sigh of relief, Faith opened her eyes and managed to fish her cell phone from her jeans. She had to call Wood, tell him about the body. She remembered him mentioning a story in the paper the week before about a pair of mutilated bodies found downtown…maybe this was related.

The Slayer dialed the numbers before a _clicking_ sound from behind stopped her in her tracks.

"Freeze!" a British voice shouted. "Drop the phone! Hands above your head!"

Slowly doing as she was told, and hoping her hands weren't shaking too much, Faith swallowed hard. She closed her eyes, in part to fight off tears, and felt her legs growing weak. The Slayer could barely stand, her wind awash with all the possible ways this could end. None of them were promising.

"Turn around!"

The request didn't register at first, Faith's body remaining motionless.

"I said, _turn around!_"

With a flinch, Faith exhaled and turned around. Her hands shook, and the Slayer refused to look at the officer. Her breath grew ragged, and her cell phone buzzed on the ground. Faith's stake sat at her feet.

Samantha held her gun as steady as she could, almost dropping it when she saw the woman's face. It was the same woman in the picture those lawyers had given her. The sight of the woman standing in front of a badly mutilated body made the detective's stomach turn. She hated the idea of Wolfram & Hart being right about something.

"Put your hands above your head," she ordered, placing her gun back in its holster and reaching for her handcuffs. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…"

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Interrogation Room, Downtown Cleveland Precinct, Cleveland, Ohio<strong>

"You realize," Samantha began, slapping a manila folder on the drab table, "how bad this all looks."

Faith kept her gaze squarely on the folder. She wasn't all that curious to see the inside of it - she probably already knew all the gory details - she just wanted to keep from looking at the detective. Something about Samantha Blanchard bugged the Slayer; she just couldn't put her finger on what. Her nerves were frayed, but less so than in the alley 30 minutes earlier.

Her wrists cuffed, Faith went through all the options. None were appealing. Call Faith a pessimist, but she didn't really see any way out of this. She figured her days were numbered when she left Los Angeles; in many ways, the Slayer was surprised she lasted this long.

"Yeah, well," she answered, "cut-up bodies usually aren't that pretty."

Samantha took her seat with a sigh, opening the folder and flipping through the pages. Her blonde hair was in a ponytail, blue pen tucked behind her left ear. She wore her badge on the gun holster draped over her shoulders, seemingly intent to let the whole world know how important she was.

"You've led quite the life, Ms. Lehane," the detective's eyes were glued to the paper. "Three years in a women's correctional facility after committing at least two murders, only to escape in 2003 and flee to several different places. Sunnydale, Boston, London…now here you are, in Cleveland. How long have you been living in Cleveland, Ms. Lehane?"

The Slayer shrugged, staring at the floor. "I dunno…few months?"

"Hm." Samantha took notes. Records provided by Wolfram & Hart indicated Faith came to Cleveland in June. The body found in the alley was the fourth such victim since early July. The two things might've been nothing more than a coincidence, but Samantha doubted it. She didn't see a lot of coincidences in her line of work.

"What were you doing in that alley?" the detective asked.

"Taking a shortcut home," Faith lied. "Hung out with some friends at a bar, decided to walk home. S'only a couple blocks."

"I see." Samantha laid down her pen. "And do you typically carry sharp wooden sticks when you go out?"

"Yeah," Faith shrugged. "Not real big on guns."

The detective leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. The dark-haired woman was lying; she could almost smell it. Faith's body language betrayed every word she said - the shoulder shrugs, the constant eye movement, the hand-wringing. This woman was nervous, borderline frightened.

Good. Suspects were usually more forthcoming when they were scared.

"You had a 6-inch dagger strapped to your leg when we brought you in," Samantha continued. "Is that correct?"

The Slayer nodded.

"Technically, I can have you arrested for that," Samantha pressed. "I don't care if some law firm in Los Angeles wiped your file clean. You're a convicted felon in possession of at least one weapon, and I found you standing over a fairly gruesome corpse. Forgive me if I'm being harsh, Ms. Lehane, but you've killed before. Why should I think you haven't killed again?"

Before the Slayer could protest, a wave of anger washing over her, the door burst open. Samantha stood as Faith turned her head in time to see Wood, decked out in a grey suit and carrying a briefcase, approach the table. She stared in confusion as Wood laid the briefcase on the table and straightened his tie.

"Jermaine Goodwin, attorney at law with Goodwin & Smits," he introduced himself, extending his right hand. Samantha didn't shake it. "When were you going to inform me that my client was in your custody?"

Samantha's mouth hung agape, eyes darting to Faith. The dark-haired woman sat back in her seat, staring at the cuffs around her wrists. Collecting her bearings, the detective narrowed her gaze. "I was unaware she _had_ a lawyer."

"Did you grant her a phone call?" Wood asked, glancing at Faith. The Slayer shook her head. "Then this line of questioning ends _now_, Detective." When the blonde opened her mouth to protest, Wood pressed on, approaching the officer. "You will let my client go, or I will be forced to sue not just this precinct, but the entire city of Cleveland.

"Now…uncuff my client, please."

Giving the black man in the suit a scowl, Samantha produced a set of gold keys from her belt and unlocked the handcuffs. Pocketing the cuffs, she sighed as Faith massaged her wrists and slowly rose to her feet. "She is a suspect in an ongoing murder investigation," the detective protested. "I found her in the presence of a horribly disfigured body."

Wood and Faith exchanged glances. "Let me guess," he countered. "You have her file, you know she's done time before, so you assumed that she committed the act - ergo throwing all respect to due process and a suspect's rights out the window."

Samantha scoffed. "That's not it at -"

Wood interrupted her, grabbing Faith by the shoulder. "Get a warrant, Detective. Then you can talk about my client being a murderer. Faith, wait for me outside."

The detective frowned as Faith disappeared through the door, hands on her hips. She didn't think it was possible to hate a lawyer more than she despised those from Wolfram & Hart, but this guy was testing that theory. "You have a lot of nerve, Mr. Goodwin."

"I'm a lawyer, it's in the job description." Wood fished an object wrapped in a white handkerchief from his pocket. "I was on my way over here anyway before I found out you were illegally holding my client." Before the officer could respond, Wood placed the object on the table and removed the handkerchief to reveal a silver badge.

Samantha frowned as she stared at the metal, leaning forward to get a better look. "I found it on the sidewalk when I left the courthouse this evening," Wood explained. "I remember seeing the name Carrington in the newspaper a few weeks ago. Wasn't sure if this would help with the case."

"Uh, yes," Samantha agreed, picking up the badge - using the handkerchief to keep her prints off the metal. "If nothing else, we can give it to his daughter. Thank you."

"Of course." Wood picked up his briefcase again, producing a business card from his pocket and resting it on the table before opening the door. "If you still want to speak with my client, get a warrant. Otherwise, we'll be seeing each other again. Real soon."

As Wood closed the door to the interrogation room, he gave the Slayer a knowing grin. Faith wasn't amused, smacking her boyfriend on the arm as they walked through the corridor and out of the precinct.

"What the hell was all _that_? You're not a lawyer!"

"What can I say?" Wood shrugged. "Rupert's the man."

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Akron, Ohio<strong>

Alyssa Palmer's car wouldn't start. Most of the time, the useless clunking of the 1987 Oldsmobile Cutless Ciera would be little more than a nuisance, yet another expense to add to the money Alyssa didn't have. But tonight, it could literally be the difference between life and death.

Blood trickling down her nose, Alyssa checked her rearview mirror. The pack of vampires was charging toward the car, a male shaped like a linebacker leading the stampede. It was bad enough she had to deal with Ronnie, her ex-boyfriend with a cocaine problem, but the undead too?

Her dark wavy hair with white highlights shook as she trembled. This wasn't the first time she'd encountered a vampire, but she'd never encountered that many at once. Linebacker Vamp bore his fangs under a street light, growling and tugging on his black leather vest. The skinnier male, sporting a porn moustache and a bald spot on the top of his head, was the quickest of the three.

The female vampire, a redhead, had actually been Alyssa's next-door neighbor when they were kids. As the engine tried to turn over again, Alyssa thought back to how Melanie had never returned her Barbie dolls.

Linebacker Vamp had killed Ronnie 15 minutes ago, and the blood was still fresh on his lips. Alyssa's trembling fingers turned the key again, the engine whining in protest. "Come on, you stupid fucker!" she slammed the steering wheel. "Work, dammit!"

The front passenger's side window shattered and Alyssa screamed. Bald Vamp poked his head through the opening, grinning and reaching his arm across the passenger's seat. Alyssa smacked his hand away before grabbing the wrist and breaking it over the shifter. Bald Vamp screamed and fell to the pavement as Melanie hopped onto the car's roof, causing the car to shake.

Alyssa checked the rear view again. Linebacker Vamp was content to watch.

Her heart thundering a million miles a second in her chest, Alyssa gulped air as best she could. She could hear Melanie trying to tear at the sheet metal with her fingers, knew vampire strength would eventually get the job done. Alyssa closed her eyes, took in a deep breath and turned the key one more time. After a momentary protest, the car finally roared to life, headlights spilling over the street.

"Thank _fucking_ God," Alyssa muttered to herself, forcing the car into gear and pushing her foot as hard as she could against the accelerator. The Oldsmobile's tires squealed in protest as the car swerved in front of on-coming traffic. Alyssa cringed and checked her rearview, just in time to see Melanie lose her grip and fall off the roof, tumbling along the road. One car swerved to miss her flailing body, running head-on into a lamp post before an 18-wheeler slammed into the vampire.

Cringing again, Alyssa focused on the road ahead. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, a map sitting in the passenger's seat, a route to Cleveland marked in yellow.

As Alyssa passed the city limits sign, she muttered to herself, knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel.

"Faith…Faith…gotta find Faith…gotta find Faith…"


	2. Chapter 2: One of Many

**Chapter 2: One Of Many**

**September 2005 – Downtown Cleveland, Ohio**

There were few things Frank hated more than having his face slammed into a brick wall. Root canals made the list, as did waiting in line at the DMV. Hell, he could even make an argument for selling his Harley - a motorcycle he'd had since college - so his daughter could afford to go to Ohio State.

The pain aside, Frank knew he'd spend the rest of the night picking bits of brick out of his goatee. The hair was thick and bushy from years of neglect, and he knew fishing out the tiny chunks would be a pain in the ass.

Hopefully, killing a Slayer would make up for it.

Frank pushed off the wall with a growl, feral eyes and fangs glowing under light of the moon. Though he'd only been a vampire for a few weeks, Frank had the advantage of a bulky frame. He'd been an offensive lineman at West Virginia, and he'd had NFL aspirations before tearing his right ACL as a senior. Even though he was now undead, Frank still moved with a limp.

Alyssa Palmer had taken advantage of that limp. She didn't know much about fighting - before her calling, much of her experience boiled down to avoiding blows from her ex when he was tweaked on his drug of the week. But she knew speed beat bulk almost every time. The vampire looked menacing with his American flag do-rag, skull-and-crossbones t-shirt, black leather vest and biker boots. The brass knuckles probably didn't help.

Compared to the vampire, Alyssa was nothing; just a 16-year-old girl, lightly toned from a tomboy childhood that included Little League baseball and a tryout with the high school swim team. Alyssa was quick on her feet, easily ducking the vampire's fist when he swung it at her face. The monster grunted, losing his footing when his arm swung over the Slayer's head.

Pulling a stake from her sky blue hoodie, Alyssa jammed the dull end into the vampire's right temple. He stumbled with a grunt, and she kept the momentum, unleashing a series of jabs and uppercuts to his chin. She could take one vampire without much problem, even one the size of Frank; it was when they started ganging up on her that Alyssa had trouble.

Backing into the wall, Frank grunted. He ducked under another blow from the Slayer, responding with brass knuckles to her gut. Alyssa stumbled and gasped for air before the vampire smashed her nose with his fist. Blood splattered onto the pavement and Frank licked what little stained his knuckles.

Slayer blood was sweet. Sweeter than a regular girl's.

Alyssa fell to the ground, coughing up blood. Her nose throbbed; it was probably broken. Black spots filled her vision. Alyssa had lost grip on her stake, and she heard the wood snap into pieces when the vampire stomped on it. Closing her eyes, Alyssa swallowed hard, fighting back dread and bile. She felt Frank grab her hair, tugging hard enough that her scalp began bleeding.

She whimpered when Frank lifted her off the ground, wrapping his left arm around her waist. He tugged her head to the side, exposing the nape of her neck. A wretched chill coursed down her spine when the monster's tongue ran along her pulse line. The stench of death and gasoline filled Alyssa's nostrils. Frank bore his fangs, drool spilling onto the Slayer's shoulder.

Alyssa felt something whiz by her ear, and the vampire released his grip. She stumbled forward before regaining her footing, turning around to see Frank fall to the ground with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. He howled in pain, grabbing the arrow with both hands. The projectile snapped in two, the pointed end still buried in his skull.

The vampire kept screaming. For someone so large and menacing, he was being an awfully big baby.

"Oh, shut _up_!" a female voice chided from behind Alyssa. She watched as a brunette woman pushed past her, crossbow in her grasp. "It's not like I fired this thing at your chest or anything." She sighed, tossing the crossbow to the ground, glancing at Alyssa over her shoulder. "I thought bikers were supposed to be tough."

Turning her attention back to the vampire, Faith Lehane placed a steel-toed boot on his neck. His screams were now muffled grunts and whimpers, blood trickling from his forehead and staining his do-rag. His face had contorted back into its human mask, eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted in agony.

"This is usually the part where I dust you," Faith explained, pressing down on Frank's neck. The creature hacked. "But I got a problem with big brutes like you busting the noses of teenage girls." She twisted the heel of her boot against Frank's throat.

"Just…rubs me the wrong way."

The older Slayer reached for her lower back, pulling a nearly two-foot-long dagger from a sheath hidden beneath her denim jacket and staring at her own reflection in the blade. Something flashed in her eyes.

Was it anger? Hate? She gazed at the vampire trapped under her foot.

"When was the last time you saw the sunrise?" she asked. Frank only squirmed. "You'd get a good view of it from here. It won't burn you right away - with the shadows, you'll last til about 10, maybe 10:30. But it'll hurt, and that's the part that interests me."

Dropping to a knee, Faith jabbed the dagger into Frank's chest. She heard his sternum crack under the assault, even as he bellowed a scream that echoed through the alley. She twisted the blade as it pierced the vampire's unbeating heart, the blade exiting out the other end and finally sticking into the pavement. Another twist of the dagger, and Faith rose, admiring her handiwork.

For a moment, Faith considered leaving Frank with a witty line. But she couldn't think of one, and part of her didn't even think the monster was worth the retort. Brushing her hands, Faith turned her attention to the other girl. She cringed at the blood caked into the teenager's face, nose bent slightly to the right.

Amazingly enough, though, the girl was still standing.

"Hey, you alright?"

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Just Outside Cleveland's City Limits<strong>

The tires squealed in protest, and as he jerked the steering wheel to the left, Spike was sure he'd break something under the hood. Not that his black 1974 Plymouth Duster was in the best shape to begin with; its rear bumper was threatening to fall off and the windows were tinted black aside from a small window on the driver's side of the windshield.

The car skidded past a "Welcome to Cleveland" sign, missing it by inches as the right-side tires lifted into the air before the machine settled onto the road again. Spike and Illyria jostled in the front seats, the unlit cigarette clenched between Spike's lips falling into his seat when the right front tire finally exploded and the car skidded to an abrupt halt.

"Oh, bugger," the vampire watched steam rise from under the hood.

The low rumble of motorcycles approached the vehicle. Three bikes in a V formation, orange-skinned demons perched on the seats. Their eyes glowed red under the starry sky, staples holding together the skin on their faces. The lead demon wore a black leather vest and carried a ball and chain. Once the motorcycles stopped, he gave a toothless grin, waving the weapon over his head.

Pushing the passenger's side door open and lifting herself off the seat, Illyria scowled at the demons. "I do not care for your driving," she barked.

"Well, _excuse me_, love!" Spike shot back, slamming the driver's side door as the two approached the bikes. "Didn't know I was supposed to obey the speed limit while we were being bloody chased!"

Eyes trained on the demons, Illyria responded: "If I were driving, this would not have happened."

"Yeah," Spike scoffed. "Cause we would've been street pizza back in St. Louis."

The platinum blonde vampire ducked to avoid the swinging ball and chain, turning his attention to the head demon. He shrugged, tilting his head toward Illyria. "Bloody women. What's a bloke to do, eh?"

Again ducking the weapon, Spike rolled to his left before springing to his feet again, ramming his fist into the lead demon's right temple. The creature tumbled to the street and his bike fell on top of him. The other two demons grunted and dismounted their bikes; the demon on the left drew a broadsword, while the other produced an M-16 from the strap over his right shoulder.

The demon with the rifle pointed it at Illyria, a noise resembling a laugh escaping its lips when its stubby, scarred finger pulled the trigger. Bullets emptied from the chamber as the Old One waved her hand, rippling the air around her. The bullets nearly came to a stop when they reached the ripples, and everything around Illyria slowed to a crawl.

She approached the demon, taking the weapon out of his hands and cracking the butt of the gun against the side of his head. Everything sped back up as the demon crumbled to the ground, and Illyria proceeded to snap the M-16 into two pieces over her left knee.

Dropping the weapon, she grabbed the demon by his spiked collar and snarled in his face. "Since when do demons use guns? That is so…_human_. It should be beneath your kind."

The Old One grabbed the demon's jaw with her right hand, placing her left hand against the back of his head before she twisted his head clean off his body. The body slumped back to the ground, Illyria staring at the head in her hands as the demon's eyes turned black.

"He did not deserve a dignified death."

Spike, meanwhile, had his hands full with both the lead demon and the demon with the broadsword. He laid on the pavement, both hands wrapped around the lead demon's chain as the other demon was striking him in the side with the butt of the sword. The vampire grunted with each hit, blood trickling down his nose. "Yeah," he huffed, his face shifting into the demonic visage of his kind. "That's great, love. Now what say you help a bloke, huh?

"They do me, there won't be a head to hold."

For a moment, Illyria wondered if helping Spike was worth it. Why would she bother herself to help a lowly half-breed? Time was, she would let the demons have their way with the vampire, enjoy the bloody spectacle and maybe use it as an example to her kingdom of the price of insolence. Sadly, those days were long gone; her kingdom was destroyed, and Illyria found herself greatly weakened in this human shell. Her strength was still considerable - she was still stronger than Spike - but she missed her power.

Still, Spike had been helpful. After Wesley's death, he had unofficially taken Illyria under his wing; she wasn't sure why, and he probably didn't know either. But Spike had helped Illyria grow accustomed to this strange and unpleasant world, and he was surprisingly chivalrous.

Illyria couldn't explain why that mattered to her.

"_Gah!_" Spike screamed when the broadsword plunged into his right shoulder. "Bloody _hell!_"

The vampire's whimpering snapped the Old One out of her trance. Illyria tossed the severed head at the demon with the broadsword, launching herself into the air as the demon stumbled and released his grip on the sword. Illyria was a blur of red and blue, hooking her arms under the head demon's before flipping him over her head. She then grabbed the sword embedded in Spike, extracting it and ignoring the vampire's pained yelp.

Twirling the blade over her head, Illyria pivoted off her right foot and sliced the sword under the head demon's neck. The demon squealed like a pig before its head came clean off, tumbling to the pavement. Illyria stared at the blade, now coated in black blood, before turning her gaze to the last demon standing.

He quivered before turning to retrieve his bike. A dark smile crept over Illyria's blue lips as she flung the sword through the air, taking satisfaction in the sick sound of the blade slicing through the demon's throat. She watched the last demon fall face-first, tumbling into the motorcycle before both ultimately smacked against the ground.

She turned and kneeled before Spike, gazing at the wound. "You wound far too easily."

"Yeah, well," Spike winced as he struggled to get back to his feet, "not all of us are leather-bound former demigods. Some of us used to be human."

"I pity you for that," Illyria said as she walked back to the car.

Sighing, Spike fished a cigarette from the crumpled-up pack in his pocket, lighting it and taking a long first drag. He stared off in the distance, shaking his head.

"Welcome to the Hellmouth…"

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Faith &amp; Wood's Apartment, Cleveland, Ohio<strong>

"I'm fucking strong," Alyssa said with a smirk, leaning forward in the chair. "I know that much."

An open can of Coke sat ignored on the table to Alyssa Palmer's right. She'd taken a few sips, but her adrenaline was still pumping. The last thing she needed was caffeine. Her right leg bounced up and down, a mixture of nerves and anticipation washing over her. She stared at the two figures standing across from her: the brunette who saved her from Frank in the alley and a tall, bald black man with a thin goatee framing his mouth.

Alyssa's eyebrows lifted when she saw their hands lock. Her father would've probably busted out the shotgun if he'd seen that.

"How long have you been," Wood paused, glancing at Faith, "fucking strong?"

Alyssa shrugged her shoulders, trying to ignore the dried blood on her forehead. "I dunno…not quite two years, I think? I just woke up one morning and felt energized like never before. It was a fucking _rush_, man…not like a coke rush. There was no crash from this. And then, this fucking weasel tried to get all up in my shit at school, so I threw down with him."

Faith's eyebrows arched. "And?"

"And…he spent three weeks in the hospital with a fractured leg, four broken ribs and a lacerated spleen," Alyssa hunched her shoulders and averted her gaze. "They threw me out of school. Like, fucking permanently."

Robin walked over the couch, sinking into the worn maroon cushions. He studied the younger woman for a few moments, noting her wild hairstyle - almost as if an attempt at dreadlocks went horribly wrong. Her navy blue sweatpants were stained, her right shoe had a hole in the side. Her nose was crooked, dried blood under her nostril.

"Then what happened?"

Alyssa scoffed. "Ran around with Ronnie for a while. It was nice at first, but then he tried to get me on heroin. I broke it off, but he kept stalking me. Well, til he became vamp food."

"You ever go to the cops?" Wood asked.

Alyssa locked eyes with Faith. "Can't. Not with a fucking juvy record."

Part of Faith wanted to comfort Alyssa somehow, maybe even confide in the younger woman that she understood what it was like to be on the run from the law. But that sort of thing was still new to the Slayer, and she wasn't entirely comfortable opening up to a relative stranger like that. She guessed this would be a job better suited for a Watcher…if there was one. Wood was the closest thing anyone in northeastern Ohio had.

"So what _do _you know?" Faith leaned against the wall. "Might be easier for us to just fill in the blanks."

Grabbing the Coke can, Alyssa stared at the mouth. Her thumb lightly trailed over the outline of the can before she finally took a swig. The condensation tickled her throat on the way down, and the younger Slayer returned the can to the table with a grimace.

"Not much," she admitted. "I messed around online a little, tried to see if there was anyone else like me. Kept coming back to something called a Slayer." Her leg stopped bouncing, and Alyssa turned her attention to her hands, picking at an imaginary splinter on her left index finger. Silence filled the room for what felt like hours.

"Met a guy in a chat room a few months back," she continued. "Real dweeb, screenname said something about Vulcans…anyway, he didn't say much, but he told me I was special and that I should find you."

Faith flinched when Alyssa's eyes met hers again, shifting uncomfortably and turning her gaze to Wood. She could see the skepticism in his eyes.

"Did Vulcan guy have a _real _name?" Wood asked.

Alyssa nodded. "Said his name was Andrew."

Faith and Wood exchanged understanding nods; Andrew Wells had been an ally of sorts before the whole thing went down in Sunnydale. For all his…eccentricities, he'd largely been reliable when it was time for the final battle. Last Faith had heard, he was in London studying under Giles' instruction.

Wood frowned. "Why would he send you to Faith?"

Faith shrugged, turning to Alyssa. "You're from Akron, right? Far as everyone knows, I'm the only Slayer around here."

Alyssa's ears perked and she sat upright for the first time since walking into the apartment. The bounce in her leg returned, and a knowing smile played across her thin lips. She brushed wild locks of hair behind her right ear.

"Slayer," she repeated. "Sounds pretty badass."

"I thought so too when I was your age," Faith joined Wood on the couch. She cringed; did Faith really just bust out the "when I was your age" line? Was she that old now? Maybe Faith felt older than she actually was, considering everything she'd experienced since her calling almost six years ago. She'd never admit it, but sometimes she could feel all that lost time catching up to her.

"So," Alyssa grabbed the soda can again, "what are we? And how many of us are there?"

"Hundreds, maybe thousands," Wood answered with a shrug. "We really don't know yet. There's really only supposed to be one, but we sort of changed the rules."

When Alyssa furrowed her brow in confusion, Wood pressed on: "Back in the day - like, prehistoric time - vampires and all sorts of demons ran rampant over the world. So these three men, the Shadow Men, forged the power of a demon into the body of a teenage girl and created the first Slayer. One girl in all the world to fight the vampires and demons."

Alyssa frowned. "Just one? What the fuck?"

Faith chuckled as Wood continued the tale: "When she died, her power moved on to the next girl, and so on and so on. One Slayer dies, the next is called."

"But everything changed when Buffy Summers was called," Faith interjected.

Alyssa's mouth hung open in a look of disbelief, her right eyebrow arching. "…_Buffy_? You're kidding, right? _Buffy_? This awesome fucking mystical power decided to set up shop inside someone named _Buffy_?"

"But get this," Faith could barely resist the urge to fall off the couch in hysterics, "Buffy bites it. So, next Slayer, come on down, right? Well, B was only dead for like a minute, so when the new girl's called, there are _two_ Slayers."

Alyssa's look of utter disbelief slowly morphed into a smile. "Wicked."

"Then the newly-called Slayer was killed," Wood added, "and Faith was called."

"Which is a sordid tale we don't have time for," the older Slayer quickly added.

"But," Alyssa wondered, "how the fuck did we get from two to…more than two?"

* * *

><p><strong>May 2003 – Sunnydale, California<strong>

As Willow Rosenberg sat cross-legged on the floor of the Sunnydale High School's principal's office, her heart pounding a thousand miles a minute in her chest, the words of the Slayer echoed in her ears. Try as she might to drown out the noise, focus on the energy inside her and gather her strength, the mage could not let go of her best friend's speech the day before.

_I hate this. I hate being here. I hate that you have to be here. I hate that there's evil and that I was chosen to fight it. I wish a whole lot of the time that I hadn't been. I know a lot of you wish I hadn't been, either._

Willow laughed to herself, forgetting for a moment the brunette sitting across from her. The mage occasionally wondered what her life would've been like had she never met Buffy Summers - particularly over the past year, when Willow found herself at the precipice of darkness, when grief threatened to destroy everything she held dear.

Even now, in the middle of what truly felt like the end of the world (again), Willow clung to her best friend's words, hoping to find strength and stability in them. Buffy never gave up on Willow, even after everything the witch had done.

_But this isn't about wishes. This is about choices._

Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, Willow began chanting the spell she'd spent the entire night studying. Despite having not slept in almost two full days, Willow found herself energized. The apocalypse had a way of pumping the adrenaline.

But this wasn't adrenaline; it was something far more powerful.

_I believe we can beat this evil. Not when it comes. Not when its army is ready. Now. Tomorrow morning, I'm opening the seal. I'm going down into the Hellmouth and I'm finishing this once and for all._

One thing about Buffy Summers; once she made up her mind, there wasn't any telling her different. Sometimes, that made her difficult to deal with; in this case, with an army of Potentials staring imminent death in the face, it was the perfect mindset to lead.

_Right now, you're asking yourselves, "What makes this different? What makes us anything more than a bunch of girls being picked off one-by-one?" It's true; none of you have the power that Faith and I do. So here's the part where you make a choice._

Almost to her surprise, Willow's inner soliloquy continued as she mumbled the incantation; she usually needed to be more clear-headed than this. Had she truly grown so powerful that she could multi-task between the mystic and the mundane with ease?

If so, that scared Willow a little. But it also calmed her.

The scythe sitting at Willow's feet began to glow. A dull white that gradually grew in brightness and intensity as the spell was cast. Within seconds, Willow's face was bathed in it – the brunette across from her watching in muted amazement.

_What if you could have that power…now? In every generation, one Slayer is born because a bunch of men who died thousands of years ago made up that rule. They were powerful men._

The hairs on the back of Willow's neck stood on end. Her flowing red locks began turning white.

_This woman is more powerful than all of them combined. So I say we change the rule._

_I say my power should be __**our**__ power._

The brunette sitting across from Willow - named Kennedy - gasped as her head snapped up. Her eyes were wide, a tiny smile teasing the corner of her mouth as a mysterious power washed over her. Willow smiled as her hair turned a glowing white, her breathing heavy.

It was working. The spell was working.

_Tomorrow, Willow will use the essence of the scythe to change our destiny. From now on, every girl in the world who might be a Slayer, will be a Slayer. Every girl who could have the power, will have the power. Can stand up, will stand up._

Kennedy stared at her hands, balled them into fists. She felt the power coursing through her veins, throbbing in tune with her heartbeat. Ever since she first heard the word "Slayer," she'd dreamt of this moment.

_Slayers…every one of us. Make your choice._

Kennedy locked eyes with the witch, taking in the look of complete rapture on her face. "Willow?"

Willow gasped for air as she felt a rush course through her body. It wasn't from the spell, it was something far more powerful. It felt pure, and as it passed, the mage felt as if she'd been cleansed…absolved, even.

She closed her eyes and the light faded. Willow slumped forward onto the floor, trying to catch her breath as her hair returned to its natural red.

"You," Kennedy whispered, unable to tear her eyes away, "are a goddess."

Still gasping for air, Willow managed a weak smile. "And you're a Slayer."

Mustering enough strength to grab the scythe, Willow handed the weapon to her girlfriend, a newfound look of determination on her face. The power of the spell had faded from the mage's body, but Willow still felt traces of it, tingling her nerve endings.

"Get this to Buffy."

_Are you ready to be strong?_

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Downtown Cleveland Precinct, Cleveland, Ohio<strong>

Samantha Blanchard was already in a bad mood following an unproductive trip to the interrogation room. She hated trying to get information from gang members; they always sat there with those self-satisfied smirks, thinking they were hot stuff for refusing to talk. If it weren't against the rules, Samantha would just beat the hell out of them until they started talking.

Hey, it used to work on _NYPD Blue_.

The blonde shook her head when she saw Kenneth McDonald sitting at her desk. His black blazer hung off the back of her swivel chair, and he was pecking away at her keyboard. Part of her wanted to call security; the rest of her wanted to take care of the lawyer herself.

Dropping a file folder onto her desk, the detective cleared her throat.

"Oh," Kenneth feigned surprise when he looked up. "Detective Blanchard. Hi. Umm, sorry, I was just checking my email."

"You can't do that in your own office?"

"Well, I'm expecting an important case file," he said, "and I figured since I was waiting for you…"

"Why _are_ you waiting for me, Mr. McDonald?" Samantha folded her arms over her chest.

"Because I have to tell you that you've been duped," the lawyer leaned back in the chair and rested his hands on the back of his head. A self-satisfied smile etched into Kenneth's scruffy face, not unlike the one the gang member flashed in the interrogation room.

Samantha felt her blood boiling.

"Excuse me?"

Rising from the chair, and putting his blazer back on, Kenneth nodded. "We heard you had Ms. Lehane in custody the other night," he explained. "Before she was rescued by her, air-quote, lawyer."

Samantha sighed. "What's the matter? Afraid of a little competition?"

As much as she hated Jermaine Goodwin for bursting in on her interrogation and putting the whole thing to a stop, she knew he'd simply been doing his job. And he was gracious enough to return Lt. Carrington's badge to her. Even though they'd gotten nowhere in that case, the badge was a step in the right direction. If nothing else, Lt. Carrington's daughter could have it once they found out what happened to him.

Kenneth laughed and shook his head. "Hardly…can't be afraid of someone who doesn't exist, Detective."

When the anger on Samantha's face morphed into confusion, Kenneth leaned forward, resting his knuckles on the desk. "There is no Jermaine Goodwin. There is no Goodwin & Smits. You've been played." He stood upright again, straightening his black tie.

"If you'd done some background, you'd know that."

Ignoring Kenneth's departing footsteps, Samantha glared at the folder. The documents looked legitimate enough, but with Wolfram & Hart, one could never really tell. Flopping the folder onto her desk, Samantha sat and fished the business card the other lawyer had given her the night he retrieved Faith Lehane from police custody.

Staring at the number on the card, Samantha heaved a sigh. There was really only one way to truly put this issue to rest. As a rule, she didn't trust Kenneth McDonald, but a nagging in her gut told the detective that _something_ wasn't quite right.

Picking up the phone and resting it between her ear and shoulder, Samantha dialed the number on the card. Three rings in, the call went through.

"Mr. Goodwin," she spoke in as pleasant a tone as she could muster. "Detective Blanchard. No, Mr. Goodwin, I actually need to speak with you. A…source has provided me with new information and I need to hear your opinion on it.

"To be perfectly frank, Mr. Goodwin, I'd rather discuss this in-person. Can you meet me at the precinct tomorrow afternoon? Say, 3:30?

"Splendid, Mr. Goodwin."

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Back Alleys of Cleveland, Ohio<strong>

If she was being honest with herself, Alyssa had to admit all of this was overwhelming. Not necessarily the fact that she was a Slayer - she actually thought it was really cool to have super powers - but everything surrounding that reality. The millennia of history, the plethora of demons to be fought, the fact that she spent her entire life within an hour's drive of the very mouth of Hell.

Well, _one_ of the mouths of Hell. According to Robin Wood, there were several.

But even as she jabbed her stake into the heart of a vampire in one of Cleveland's many alleys - a sinewy fellow with dreadlocks and a Bob Marley t-shirt - Alyssa couldn't keep the smile off her face. She rose to her feet with a huff, brushing dust off her hands and watching as Faith dispatched of two vamps at once. She stared in amazement as the older Slayer ducked a punch before stakes popped out of her wrists, dusting both vampires at once.

_Whoa_, Alyssa thought with a sideways grin, _who taught her _that _trick?_

"Not bad," Faith said, retracting her stakes. "I can tell you fought before your calling."

Alyssa frowned, still brushing dust off her wrists. It was like sand at the beach, only with the added stench of death. "How did you know?"

"Cause I was the same way," the older Slayer admitted. "Got in fights all the time in school. Sometimes fought at home, too…mostly in self-defense."

Zipping up her baby blue hoodie, Alyssa stuffed her hands in her pockets with a shiver. Was Cleveland really this chilly in September, or was something else bothering her? The teenager was better at sensing things since her Calling, but until recently, she hadn't paid much mind to it or realized how useful that skill was in the heat of battle.

Still, the tingle running along her spine was unnerving. It wasn't as bad as some of the dreams she had in recent years, but it did little to settle the pit in Alyssa's stomach.

"So," Alyssa wondered, "what's Buffy like? I mean, what was it like being around the Queen Slayer?"

Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, Faith was about to burst into laughter when the sound of a trash can being knocked over interrupted her. Silently thanking the Powers - she was _so_ not ready to dish on her past with Buffy - Faith pressed her back against the brick wall, grabbing Alyssa by the arm to hold her in place.

Glancing over her shoulder at the younger Slayer, Faith pressed a finger to her lips before pulling a stake out of her back pocket. Returning her gaze to the alley, Faith raised the stake above her head before a flash of blue caught her by surprise. Faith dropped her stake and lost her balance before feeling a hand grab the collar of her shirt and yank her forward.

The older Slayer never saw the fist slam into her nose, but she felt the bone snap and the blood trickle. She stumbled to her knees as Alyssa screamed.

Alyssa knelt and grabbed Faith's stake with a shaky hand, wide eyes staring at the thin demon hovering over the older Slayer. The creature's blue hair contrasted with what appeared to be red leather armor, the demon's wide eyes jetting back and forth.

"You are more fragile than I was told," Illyria groused, lifting the older Slayer into the air. "I'm disappointed."

As Faith coughed up a bit of blood, wiping her nose with the back of her wrist, Alyssa watched as a man in a black leather coat and platinum-white hair joined the demon. He flicked a cigarette to the ground with a look of annoyance on his face before grabbing the blue-haired creature's wrist and yanking.

"You _git!_" he yelled as Faith fell back to the ground. "She's on our side!"

Pulling her wrist out of the vampire's grasp, Illyria narrowed her gaze before focusing on the hunched-over Slayer. The Old One took pleasure in seeing the Slayer wincing and cradling her sides. Illyria could make out the stench of Faith's blood amid the other myriad odors filling the Cleveland air. This town had all of Los Angeles' filth without any of the charm.

"I do not have a side," the demon lamented.

Alyssa dropped to her knees beside Faith, placing a hand on the older Slayer's back. She flinched when Faith coughed up more blood, scrunching her face in a look of disgust. Alyssa had never cared for the sight of blood, and it was finally dawning on her that this whole Slayer thing would likely put her in the presence of it quite a bit.

"You okay?" she whispered.

"Yeah," Faith winced again, glancing up at the other two figures. She fought the urge to roll her eyes when she saw Spike arguing with the blue-haired creature. "Five by five."

"Who's the Smurf?" Alyssa frowned. "And what's she doing with Billy Idol?"

"Look," Spike growled, letting go of Illyria's wrist and stepping in front of the demon when she went to lunge at Faith again, "Rupert sent me here to help Faith. You're lucky I brought you along."

Regarding Spike with emotionless eyes, Illyria raised her head. "I do not need your pity."

"No," Spike agreed, "but we need your strength."

Helping Faith back to her feet, Alyssa cleared her throat loud enough for the other two to hear. Once the British man and the blue-haired freak regarded the teenager, she shot them both an annoyed glare and shrugged her shoulders.

"Umm, hi…anyone mind telling me what _the fuck _is going on here?"


	3. Chapter 3 :Arrested Development

**Chapter 3: Arrested Development**

**September 2005 – City Hall, Cleveland, Ohio**

Sifting through court records was, by far, Logan Guevara's least favorite part of being a reporter. He could handle the late nights, pushing deadlines and trying to track down people who would rather punch him in the Adam's apple than talk to him. But when it came to legal documents, file folders stuffed to the gills with indecipherable paperwork, Logan wanted to wave the white flag.

All the coffee in the world couldn't keep him awake while reading this drivel.

Sadly, his investigative piece on potential corruption in City Hall wouldn't get written without these documents. Only problem was, aside from several new construction contracts relating to Cleveland State University, Logan couldn't find much.

But why all the construction? Was the campus really in that bad a shape?

Grabbing the pencil off his right ear and using the eraser to scratch at the stubble on his cheek, Logan flipped open one the folders strewn about his desk. Squinting, the reporter scanned the tiny print.

His brow furrowed in concentration, Logan began jotting down information into his yellow legal pad. His foot kicked aside a crumpled-up piece of paper, his free hand instinctively grabbing for a Starbucks cup. Logan took a sip, blanched. Deciding he wanted something that wasn't lukewarm, Logan dropped the cup into a nearby trash can, still writing.

Logan was so focused that his cell phone nearly scared him to death when it chirped to life. Dropping his pencil with a yelp, Logan closed his eyes and sighed once he realized what was going on. _Great_, he thought, grabbing the phone and pressing it to his ear, _scared of a goddamn phone._

"Logan," he spoke, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, sighing when he realized who was on the other line.

"Mr. Giles," he wore a smile that more closely resembled a cringe. "This is a surprise. What is it, like 3 a.m. over there?"

As sources went, Rupert Giles was reliable. But Logan felt a pit in his stomach every time the British man called, because he rarely had good news. Logan twirled the pencil in his free hand, staring at it in hopes of calming his nerves. It wasn't working.

"Everything's centered around the campus," the squinted at his notes. His mother had been right; his handwriting _was_ awful. "The library, specifically. We're talking lots of concrete reinforcement, foundation inspection, that sorta thing. What I don't get is _why_."

Logan sighed, dropping his pencil and pinching the bridge of his nose again. "The documents can say 'earthquake protection' until the cows come home, Rupert, but you and I both know that's bullshit. This is Cleveland. We don't get earthquakes. Our lake catches fire. Big difference."

Logan suddenly sat up in his chair, resting the phone between his ear and shoulder as he grabbed the notepad, flipping to a blank page and began scribbling anew. He furrowed his brow once more, tongue sticking out of his mouth. For a moment, he'd lost track of what Rupert was saying.

"You know something," the reporter alleged with a cocky smile. "Yeah…you know damn well what this is all about.

"There's a Hellmouth under that library, isn't there?"

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Underground Location, Cleveland State University, Cleveland, Ohio<strong>

Sonja Bishop hated sticking around for ancient rituals; she found them dull and pretentious. But her job involved a certain amount of brown-nosing, and since the woman performing this particular rite was a valued and respected client - having worked with the firm for decades - Sonja's absence would've made Wolfram & Hart look bad.

Still, the brunette rolled her eyes as the candles were lit, five black tubes of wax aligned in an inverse pentagram on the cold stone of the basement floor. Markings littered the floor, but they were so worn and faded, the lawyer couldn't make out what they said.

But Desdemona could.

Standing nearly six feet tall, wearing a flowing black dress that draped off her right shoulder, Desdemona held an eternal elegance about her. Her blood-red lips stood out amid the sea of black, her dark hair flowing to the small of her back. Lithe fingers caressed a ceremonial blade, the hilt gold with crimson stones, the blade shining in the candle light.

Desdemona closed her striking blue eyes, running the blade along the inside of her left arm - the fleshy part just above the elbow - slicing through her pale skin. She never flinched as blood trickled from the cut, drops landing in the center of the makeshift pentagram on the floor. She squeezed her hand into a fist, forcing a few more drops to fall.

Watching the display before her, Sonja rolled her eyes again and checked her smartphone. She'd already been in this dump for 45 minutes, and nothing was happening. The lawyer was tempted to leave, but she was under direct orders from Special Projects to stay for the duration of the ritual.

Not that Sonja was big on following orders, but she knew insubordination resulted in severe, if not necessarily swift, punishment at Wolfram & Hart.

"Are we almost done?" she tried to hide the disdain in her voice.

Two men draped in black cloaks stood motionless, each holding a lit torch. Desdemona opened her eyes and stared between them, her eyes locking with the other woman's for a brief moment before she placed the dagger back into the sheath resting on her right hip.

Desdemona approached Sonja, smiling ever so briefly before her expression turned dark and she drew the blade again. Sonja flinched when the blade teasingly traced along her jawline, Desdemona raising her chin and narrowing her gaze.

"I do not pay you for your impatience," Desdemona hissed in a smooth British voice. Without warning, she grabbed the back of Sonja's neck, fingers curled in the lawyer's hair as Desdemona's face shifted. Eyes turned yellow and feral, eyebrows replaced with pale, bumpy ridges. Desdemona bore her fangs under the light of the fire, snarling as Sonja's eyes grew wide.

"Patience is not merely a virtue. It is _the_ virtue. You think you can have everything you want now, because you're convinced that one day soon, you will meet your end. You and your lot try to squeeze so much into your pathetic lives, you never take the time to stand back and enjoy anything."

Dragging Sonja to the center of the pentagram, Desdemona's dark smile returned - even more menacing as she wore the visage of the vampire. The flames danced in her face, shadows giving the usually-elegant Brit an intimidating aura.

"For 500 years, I have learned it is sometimes best to let things unfold," she continued, her gaze focused on the circle beneath her feet as she tossed the lawyer aside. "Impatience will get you killed."

"So will a splinter," Sonja mumbled under her breath, regaining her footing as Desdemona returned to the circle.

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Faith &amp; Wood's Apartment, Cleveland, Ohio<strong>

"You weren't sent here to close _this_ Hellmouth too, were you?"

"Wouldn't be here if I was," Spike answered matter-of-factly, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He stood in the Slayer's spartan living quarters, staring out the window into the fading night sky. The sun would be up soon; Spike could smell it. "Been there, done that. Lost the t-shirt in the bloody fire."

Turning his attention back to Faith - and the younger Slayer sitting on the couch behind her suspiciously eyeing Illyria - the vampire chuckled to himself. Taking orders from Giles had never been in Spike's plans; then again, he hadn't planned on being in Los Angeles after dying when Sunnydale crumbled.

Funny thing about plans; they seldom went as expected.

"Decided I could be of use here," he shrugged. "Rest of the Scooby Gang has the world covered, but Cleveland needs all the super bodies it can get."

"Including her?" Faith asked, nodding her head in the direction of Illyria, who was standing in the corner intently staring at Robin Wood's fern tree.

"Yeah," Alyssa eyed the Old One with a cringe. "Why did _she_ have to tag along?"

"I do not 'tag along,'" Illyria replied. "I go where I choose."

Staring at Illyria, and fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Spike stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather coat. "Yeah," he said, a little defensive, "Illyria's with me."

"Yeah, I get that," Faith folded her arms over her chest and took two steps forward until she was face-to-face with the vampire. She narrowed her gaze and her nostrils briefly flared. An energy coursed through the Slayer's veins, and it took a lot of effort to control her breathing. "But why?"

Furrowing his brow, Spike cocked his head to the side.

"Yeah," Faith added, "I know. I don't know much, but I know enough. I know that when I look at her, I see someone who helped me."

Faith could barely remember Winifred Burkle's name, but the Slayer would never forget what Fred had done for her. A fugitive just out of prison and in a coma, doped up on a mystical drug thanks to a _mastermind_ plan to reign in Angelus, Faith had been on death's door. But Fred - along with a green-faced demon named Lorne - sat by her bedside, comforting her.

They barely spoke that night - Faith pretty much had to bail once the crisis had been averted - but the Slayer never forgot. Seeing the blue-haired creature in Fred's body, hearing a voice strikingly similar to the human's, frayed her nerves.

"I want her _gone_, Spike."

"You think I don't know that?" Spike shot back, jabbing a finger into Faith's chest. "I look at her, I see Fred, too. And I bloody traveled the world trying to save her!"

Alyssa scoffed, bolting to her feet. "And now you're her fucking pet!"

Spike glared at the younger Slayer and Faith stood between them, glancing over her shoulder and shaking her head at Alyssa. The younger Slayer continued glaring at the vampire, but her shoulders slumped as she relented and returned to her seat on the couch.

"Look," he growled, "I loved Fred. Bloody girl helped me when no one else would. It twists my sodding gut every time I look at Illyria, but she's strong, and she's lost."

Faith shrugged her shoulders. "Sucks for her!"

Spike and Faith were so busy arguing that neither of them had noticed Illyria approach. She stood to the side, watching intently as the vampire and the Slayer went back and forth, her ancient mind struggling to wrap around the concept of two such creatures behaving this way. In her day, the Slayer and the vampire were mortal enemies. Illyria found the idea of the two being allies most vexing. It was yet another reason why the Old One did not care for this world.

"I will speak on my own behalf," the former demi-god announced. Spike and Faith halted immediately, staring at the blue-haired creature.

Turning her attention to the older Slayer, Illyria cocked her head to the side. "Spike has been my guide." Faith shot Spike a disbelieving glare at the Old One continued, "Though his strength pales in comparison to mine, he has been of use."

Glaring at Illyria, Faith shook her head. "I bet he has."

"This world is foreign to me, and I do not care for it," the Old One explained. "But Spike, like Wesley before him, has taught me your ways and customs. I do not understand much of this reality, but I trust the vampire and I have fought by his side."

The Old One's gaze returned to Faith. "He is a worthy ally, and he tells me you are as well."

Ignoring Illyria's comment, Faith scrunched her brow and took a step back. Her gaze shifted between the vampire and the demon, a sinking feeling in her stomach. The Slayer's mouth hung open for a few moments, before words finally escaped.

"Wes?" she asked softly, glancing at Illyria. "Why isn't he _still_ your 'guide?'"

Silence fell over the room. Spike and Illyria exchanged glances, before the vampire stared at his feet and the Old One's hands balled into tight fists. No one wanted to make eye contact, and the sinking sensation in the Slayer's gut had morphed into a knowing sense of dread, a cold shiver running down her spine as tears threatened the edges of her eyes.

Faith took three more steps back, taking a deep breath to steel herself despite the knowledge descending upon her. She felt an impossible weight on her chest, and for the first time in a long time, the Slayer felt the urge to flee. Just grab her coat, walk out the door, and run until her lungs gave out.

Given her constitution, she'd probably be running for a while.

Spike finally looked up. "Faith…"

"Stop!" she blurted out, closing her eyes and clenching a fist with her right hand. "Just…stop."

The older Slayer grabbed her denim jacket hanging off the chair, slinging it over her shoulders before grabbing the stake from the inner pocket and clenching it in her fist. She felt splinters sticking into her palm, but Faith welcomed the sensation. She also felt the urge to pound someone into the ground, another sensation she enjoyed at the moment.

Something evil was going to pay tonight, that much was certain.

Without another word, Faith crossed the living room and swung the door open before disappearing into the hall. Alyssa and Spike both flinched when the door slammed shut, silence once again falling upon the apartment. Illyria returned to the fern tree in silence; Spike refused to look at her.

"Um," Alyssa tentatively broke the silence, "who's Wesley?"

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Downtown Cleveland Precinct, Cleveland, Ohio<strong>

In preparation for her meeting with the supposed Jermaine Goodwin, Samantha Blanchard had done some digging. Thanks to federal and state laws, the officer was able to access some illuminating files. As it turned out, Kenneth McDonald _wasn't_ lying this time; there was no Jermaine Goodwin in the state database.

Still, as she watched the faux-lawyer weave his way through the precinct to her desk, Samantha decided to play things close to the chest, make him think she was still buying the charade. The detective was definitely interested to know why this man was pretending to be a lawyer on Faith Lehane's behalf; she had a theory, but she wanted to find out for sure.

She put on her best smile as "Jermaine" approached her desk. He may have been a fraud, but the man had impeccable taste in suits. The detective inside Samantha almost asked where he got the kind of money one would need for a fine-tailored three-piece number, but she bit her tongue.

"Mr. Goodwin," she offered her right hand. "Thank you for seeing me."

"Of course," Wood shook the detective's hand before sitting in the wooden chair across from the desk and setting his briefcase on the floor. "Is everything alright? You sounded a bit edgy when we spoke yesterday."

For a moment, Samantha didn't say anything. She still wasn't entirely sure how to proceed: ease into the accusation or barrel full-speed ahead and really lay into the guy? The latter probably wasn't the best of ideas - at least, not until the detective got a better understanding of who the black man sitting across from her really was.

"I have…information," she carefully chose her words. "A source tells me you're not exactly who you claim to be."

Folding his arms over his chest, Wood straightened his posture. He kept his face expressionless. "Is that so, Detective?"

Sliding a manila folder across her desk toward "Jermaine," Samantha locked eyes with him. She tried not to let him see the anger in her eyes; if anything, this would be much smoother if he came to the admission on his own.

"You're not Jermaine Goodwin, are you?" she asked. "And there is no Goodwin & Smits. The address you list on your business card has been up for lease for the past eight months."

Before the man could protest, Samantha continued. "You are not registered with the Ohio Bar Association. There is no record of anyone by your name in the entire Cleveland area. Our records indicate that Ms. Lehane does not currently have legal representation. How _exactly_ do you explain all this?"

Well, so much for playing things close to the vest. Samantha had hoped to not blurt everything out in the beginning like this, but once the first question had been asked, she couldn't stop herself. The detective's hart pounded in her chest, and when her eyes scanned over Faith's name again, she had to take a deep breath to calm herself.

Leveling a gaze at Samantha, and taking a deep breath of his own, Wood clasped his hands together. He shrugged his shoulders, searching for anything he could say to explain the inconsistencies. He felt a rush of adrenaline usually reserved for late-night, back-alley fights, and Wood had to resist curling his hands into fists.

With a nervous chuckle, Wood shook his head. "Who's your source?" he asked. "I think I know, but I wanna hear it."

Sitting back with a smug grin painted on her face, Samantha shook her head. "You know I can't do that."

"It was Wolfram & Hart, wasn't it?" Wood rose from his chair, stuffing his hands into his pockets and pacing back and forth in front of the detective's desk. A ringing phone in the background went unanswered. "This isn't the first time they've tried to have me shut down."

He stopped, staring at Samantha in a look of disbelief. "You don't…_believe_ them, do you?"

"I didn't," she admitted with a sigh. "Not at first. But I investigated their claims, and as it turns out…they were right. They were the blind squirrel and you, Mr. Wood, were the proverbial acorn."

Robin Wood fell silent; there was no retort for the truth, and in hindsight, Wood thought he should've seen this coming, been better prepared. Posing as a lawyer to get Faith out of police custody seemed like a genius plan at the time - and an easy one to execute, with the Council's help - but things were shaping up to go bad fast.

"That's right," the detective added. "I know who you are, Robin. And I know you've led _quite_ the fascinating life. Not so much the part about you being a high school principal - though I _am_ curious as to how the whole place crumbled to the ground."

"Earthquake," Wood explained. "Leveled all of Sunnydale."

"Right. Of course…what I want to know, Mr. Wood, is how you managed to get a job at a public school with your background. You have a rap sheet from New York that's two pages long.

"Nothing _terribly_ serious, mind you. Unless you count attempted murder."

* * *

><p><strong>April 1998 – Manhattan, New York<strong>

Robin Wood's lungs felt like they were on fire, every breath harder to come by than the last. Sweat rolled down his temple, arms and legs pumping as he ran through a maze of back alleys. He squinted as he ran, struggling to find his target in the dark. The stake felt heavy tucked into his belt. Wood could hear his heart thumping in his chest.

His target could hear it, too. A newly-made vampire, a lanky man named Tom who used to work on Wall Street, dodged trash cans and cut corners with surprising ease, though he was tempted to turn around and charge at the man chasing him. His heartbeat rang like a dinner bell, and Tom hadn't fed in almost 24 hours.

Snarling as he turned another corner, Tom ran his tongue along his fangs. His survival instinct was battling with itself; was the vampire supposed to keep running to ensure he didn't get staked, or did he turn around and hope to open a vein for a fresh meal?

The more Tom thought about it, the more he leaned toward the latter. He wasn't running away from the Slayer; this was just some guy who liked to play vampire hunter. Tom may have been new, but he understood most humans were no match for the undead.

So what if the guy had a stake? Tom had fangs, super strength and – apparently - kung fu skills.

Stopping on a dime, Tom pivoted until he was facing the man who'd been chasing him. Wood slowed to a stop, grabbing the stake from his belt and gripping it as the other hand removed the grey hood from over his head. He sucked in as much oxygen as he could, resisting the urge to double over and place his hands on his knees.

"You know what?" Tom growled. "Fuck this! Tired of running from a stinking _human_."

Assuming a defensive posture, Wood ducked when the vampire lunged at him. He felt dead fingers brush against his shoulder before pivoting and turning around. All that running made moving a little difficult; if Wood hunched over anymore, he'd probably decorate the pavement with his dinner. Wood was at a disadvantage. Not only was the vampire stronger and quicker, but he had more endurance.

Nevertheless, Bernard Crowley hadn't trained a quitter. So when the vampire lunged again, Wood slammed his fist into the creature's gut before driving him face-first into the ground. Wood then jammed his knee into the vampire's back to pin him to the pavement, his other fist slamming into the back of its head.

"Just can't resist a meal, can you?" Wood quipped.

"What can I say?" Tom cackled between blows to the head. "I'm hungry."

Mustering all his strength, Tom pushed Wood off before leaping to his feet and kicking the stake out of the black man's hand. Catching the stake in mid-air, Tom gave a sarcastic grin before slicing the weapon into Wood's side. Wood cringed and stumbled backward, covering the fresh wound with his left hand. He watched Tom twirl the stake in his hand before licking some of the blood off the tip.

"Well, now, isn't _that_ interesting…" Tom stared at the stake. "Clearly, you're not a Slayer, but…" Approaching the wounded man, Tom chuckled to himself. Waving the weapon in Wood's face, the smile on the vampire's face grew. "So, if I kill you, does that count for, like, half a Slayer? Hm? C'mon, tell me. What gives here?"

Robin Wood wasn't a Slayer; he didn't have any of the Chosen One's mystical abilities. All he had was an extensive knowledge of martial arts, weapons training and all the supernatural lore Crowley could fit in his head. But it was in his blood because of his mother, Nikki Wood. She'd been a Slayer in the 1970s, gave the Council seven years before meeting her end in the subway.

To this day, Wood hoped to eventually face her killer.

Adrenaline took over, Wood ignoring the pain as he ducked Tom's blow before punching the vampire in the stomach. It probably wasn't as effective on the undead, but it still knocked Tom backwards, granting Wood some much-needed space as he stood upright again and kicked Tom's left elbow, forcing the creature to drop the stake.

Wood picked up the weapon with a cringe, jamming it into the vampire's chest when he lunged forward again. He felt the wood sink into the creature's unbeating heart, saw the stunned expression on the monster's face before he disappeared in an explosion of dust. Wood buried his face in the bend of his arm, waiting for the dust to settle before looking up again.

He thought about standing, but the fresh wound in his side protested. Wood hissed at the pain, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth.

Leaning against the wall to compose himself, Wood stood up a little straighter when he heard a trash can fall over behind him. Acting purely on instinct, Wood tightened his grip on the stake, covered in blood and dust before raising the weapon above his head. His eyes scanned the darkness for movement, but there was none.

Reluctantly, Wood lowered his stake, returning it to the loop in his belt.

Turning on the balls of his feet, Wood limped off into the night, cringing at the pain in his side. He heard another dumpster knocked over in the distance, but Wood ignored the loud crash as he ducked into another back alley.

It wasn't until the sirens began to wail that Robin Wood got nervous.

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Downtown Cleveland<strong>

To much of Cleveland, the abandoned building on the corner of Ontario and Rockwell was little more than an old shipping warehouse, a bastion for one of the many local businesses that had closed up shop and moved elsewhere in recent years.

Truth was, the building was a covert Council hideout. Relatively spartan on the surface, the real truth was tucked away in the basement. The entire back wall served as an occult library, staked to the proverbial gills with books the likes of which Faith has never seen. She stared briefly at the lit candle on the table in the center of the room, pausing to glance at the four massive tomes standing in the corner of the table.

Nathaniel, the elderly gentleman charged with overseeing the facility, had informed the Slayer that they were templates - and that the Council had acquired them after the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram & Hart was reduced to rubble.

Nathaniel raved about how literally any text in the universe could be conjured up within those pages, but Faith couldn't tear her mind off where the books came from. Had they belonged to Wesley?

Crossing the dark room, Faith grabbed a black remote and pointed it at a 60-inch plasma display mounted on the wall. With the push of a button, the screen illuminated. White light bathed the Slayer's face as she stood before the monitor, arms folded over her chest. Her eyes were puffy and red. Faith took a deep breath, standing a little taller.

Stiff upper lip, all that good stuff.

The white disappeared, immediately replaced by Rupert Giles' face. The new head of the Council of Watchers blinked, setting down his mug before squinting into the camera perched on his desk. He cleared his throat and pushed aside the manila folder that had been open in front of him.

"Faith," he greeted with a tone of surprise. "How are you?"

"Why didn't you tell me, Rupert?"

With a blink, Giles paused to remove his glasses. Giving them a quick glance, he set them on the table before folding his arms across the surface. He squinted in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"About Wes," Faith growled, hoping to hide her quivering lower lip.

Understanding washed over the Watcher's face. He nodded once, averting his gaze as his features darkened. They hardly ever spoke of what used to be Angel Investigations; once Angel and his crew began running the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram & Hart, the Scooby Gang severed all ties with its former allies. Trust has been broken, on multiple fronts.

Still, the death of Wesley Wyndham-Pryce remained a sore spot for everyone, Giles included.

"I…" Giles paused, pursing his lips. "I thought you knew."

"I do, now that Spike and his little _pet_ told me!" the Slayer snapped, tossing the remote onto the table with the candle. The remote slid two feet before coming to a rest. Faith had no more tears to shed; now, she was just angry.

"It shouldn't bother me," she admitted. "They made their choice when they went to that hellhole. Turned their backs on all of us. But dammit, Giles, it was Wes! You at least owe me that!"

Still, Rupert would not bring himself to look the Slayer in the eye. Even with thousands of miles, an ocean and a monitor separating them, Giles could feel the anger directed his way. Faith had long struggled with expressing such emotions in a constructive manner, so as much as he didn't care for being yelled at, at least she wasn't pounding on his face.

Truth was, she probably would've been years earlier.

"What happened, Giles?"

Forcing himself to look at the Slayer, Giles heaved a sigh. The bags under his eyes were heavy; he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept. Re-organizing the Council was a task beyond arduous, particularly with so many Slayers and so few Watchers in the world. On occasion, Giles wished Buffy had never asked Willow to do that spell with the scythe.

"Angel and company brought down the Circle of the Black Thorn," he explained, "and with it, Wolfram & Hart's Los Angeles base. It was an attack from within; in hindsight, we were wrong to mistrust them. Wesley was killed by the sorcerer Cyrus Veil."

The Slayer nodded once, staring at the floor. She didn't know what to say. She wasn't even sure what to think. Angel Investigations had still been on the right side of the fight all along. Everything Angel taught her about fighting the good fight and never giving in hadn't been a lie after all. Faith supposed she should've been relieved at that, but she was still confused. She still hurt, and she still didn't know how to put it into words.

"What about the Smurf?" Faith asked, desperate to change the subject. "Spike swears by her, but…I know there's something off about the bitch."

"Yes, Illyria," Giles sighed. He felt guilty for that; when the Old One was first burrowing its way inside Winifred Burkle, Angel had called asking for help. All Rupert had to do was send Willow to Los Angeles; she was powerful enough to handle things. But that mistrust left Angel and his crew on their own, and as a result, they lost one of their own.

"I'm afraid I don't know much, other than what Angel told me," he admitted. "Illyria was a demon in its purest form, ruled ruthlessly and without mercy. I daresay Illyria is weakened and disoriented now that she's trapped in her human form."

Finally returning his gaze to Faith through the monitor, Giles put on his glasses once again. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Faith."

The Slayer shrugged. "S'no big," she lied, glancing over her shoulder. Old habits were hard to break, even in front of someone like Giles. Despite her trust issues, Faith never openly disliked the Watcher. Often, Faith wondered what her life wouldn't been like if Giles had been her Watcher when she went to Sunnydale instead of Wesley. Would things have turned out better, or would Faith still have become a murderer?

Shaking the thought, she forced herself to look back at Giles. "No, I get it. Really." She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans with a sigh. "Just…with Spike and Illyria showing up, a new Slayer in town…I kinda flipped, ya know?"

Giles cocked his head to the side. "New Slayer?"

"High school dropout from Akron. She came looking for me and Robin."

Grabbing his manila folder again, Giles reached for a pen before jotting down something. He removed his glasses again, scratching his forehead and setting them down on the desk. "Well, that's rather fortuitous, actually."

"I'm gonna go ahead and guess that means something good," Faith smirked - the closest she'd come to smiling all night. "So you want Robin to make with the book stuff, make him big, tough Watcher guy?"

"Yes," Giles agreed. "And try to give Illyria a chance. I think in this instance, we would do well to trust Spike's judgment. He's been around her longer than the rest of us; if he thinks she can be useful, I say we trust him."

"Right," Faith grabbed the remote and turned off the monitor. The screen went black, leaving just the candle illuminating the room once more. She turned and glanced at the desk, her eyes immediately focusing on the templates.

Approaching the desk, the Slayer grabbed one, surprised by its heft. She traced her fingers over the leather binding before cradling the tome under her right arm and leaving the room. She stopped at the threshold with a sigh, glancing down at the book in her hand again.

"Trust Spike," he whispered with a smirk. "Never thought I'd hear that."


	4. Chapter 4: Endgame is Now

**September 2005 – Downtown Precinct, Cleveland, Ohio**

Lieutenant James Carrington had been a loyal servant for the city of Cleveland his entire adult life, but he'd also been a devoted family man. He had been popular with virtually the entire police department – even officers who made it a habit of not socializing with their co-workers couldn't help but consider James a friend.

Samantha Blanchard was one such officer. She kept her distance for a number of intensely personal reasons, but James had been able to break through her protective barrier. They were never partners – Samantha worked homicide, James specialized in long-term undercover work – but they shared the occasional post-shift drink.

James loved talking about his daughter. Samantha had heard all about her first tooth, her first day in kindergarten, that time she fell off the monkey bars and twisted her ankle. Others in the precinct poked fun at Samantha, playfully accusing her of romantically tangling herself with a fellow officer, but she never saw it that way.

She always thought James was just lonely. He'd lost his wife during childbirth. At the end of the day, he just needed someone to talk to.

Samantha hadn't seen James in nearly four months. No one had. Leads were hard to come by, but as the days turned into weeks, everyone in the precinct knew, without actually acknowledging it, that this was no longer a missing person's case.

That fear was confirmed the other night, when a man posing as an attorney dropped off James' badge. To the rest of the precinct, that was all the evidence they needed to know that Lt. Carrington was dead. But for Samantha, it only begged more questions – mostly because the source had proven so untrustworthy in other regards.

She stared through the one-way glass at the bald black man sitting in the interrogation room. He stared at the bland table, hands clasped together in his lap. She still didn't understand why he posed as a lawyer representing Faith Lehane – a fugitive tipped off to her by the _fine_ folks at Wolfram & Hart – nor did she understand how he came about Lt. Carrington's badge.

Was Faith involved in that somehow? Given her colorful past, it was hard for the detective's mind not to fill in the proverbial blanks.

Deciding she'd made Robin Wood wait long enough, Samantha pushed her way into the interrogation room, sitting across from him and folding her arms over her chest. The detective narrowed her gaze, letting silence fill the room.

Finally, Wood broke that silence. "Isn't this the part where you ask me questions?"

"I would, if I knew where to start," she leaned forward with her elbows on the table. "You see, Mr. Wood, I'm having trouble connecting the dots. I don't know what confuses me more: the fact that you would pose as an attorney for a known fugitive – which is _clearly_ against the law – or that you would happen to possess the badge of an officer who's been missing for months."

She sat back again. "By all means, Mr. Wood, enlighten me."

Robin raised his eyebrows. "Pretty sure I'm entitled to an attorney."

The detective offered a humorless smile. "You're funny. You're also not under arrest."

With a smirk, Robin raised his hands to his head, showing the silver cuffs tightly wrapped around his wrists. "Then what's with these?" he asked. "Pretty sure handcuffs are the international symbol for _you're under arrest_."

Glancing at the one-way mirror, Samantha crossed a finger under her chin in a slashing motion to tell the person on the other end to cut off recording and leave the control room. Once she heard the muffled sound of that door being closed, Samantha rose and locked the door to the interrogation room.

In her mind, all of this was connected: the missing police officer, the fugitive, Wolfram & Hart. She had no proof; at this point, it was little more than a hunch. But something told Samantha that none of this was coincidental, and something told her the man sitting at the interrogation table had all the answers she was looking for.

It was just a matter of getting him to talk.

"Tell me about Faith," she said.

Blinking, Robin took a second to gather his mental bearings. He sat back and lowered his hands again. "Well," he exhaled. "Talk about an about-face…"

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Cleveland State University<strong>

"Do we really have to talk about this now?" Spike grunted, pulling a broadsword out of the back of a slain Groxlar beast, staring at the purple blood in disgust before ducking a vampire attack and hitting the offending creature in the back of the head with the butt of his weapon.

"What?" Faith protested, tossing another vampire over her shoulder before pile-driving her stake into his chest. "It's a legitimate question!"

Staking his own vampire, and tossing the broadsword to the ground, Spike fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his leather duster. Lighting the smoke and pocketing his Zippo, the vampire took a long drag and closed his eyes.

He didn't begrudge Faith's curiosity, but at the same time, he was jealous of her ignorance. She hadn't lived through Illyria's resurrection, and the subsequent fall of the Circle of the Black Thorn – which, in its own way, also served as the fall of whatever was left of Angel Investigations. She had questions about the former demi-god, and in the absence of a Watcher, Spike's first-hand knowledge was the best she had.

But in the middle of a battle that had left piles of dust and demon bodies strewn about Euclid Commons? The Slayer's timing needed work.

Staking another vampire, Faith straightened her jacket and brushed the dust off her shoulders. Pocketing her stake, she approached Spike before grabbing the pack out of his coat. Lighting her own smoke, and cringing after the first puff, she waved the lit instrument in the air.

"I mean," she paused. 'Okay, G-man says she's cool if you say she's cool. So…she's cool, right?"

The vampire let the cigarette hang between his lips, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat. Truth be told, _he_ still didn't know what to think about Illyria. Yes, she was strong. Yes, she'd proven herself worthy as an ally. But she still killed Fred. She still walked around in Fred's body.

Sometimes, she made herself look and sound just like Fred. If he wasn't worried about being flung across the room like a ragdoll, Spike would've socked her in the face for it.

"She won't kill us all in our sleep," he shrugged before grabbing the cigarette and taking another pull. He took a moment to examine the lit campus of Cleveland State, unable to shake the feeling that there was something off about this place, that there was an energy that burrowed deep into his being. It was a familiar feeling, one he didn't care for. It was almost like he was being pulled in several different directions, his soul scrambling for a way to tug itself free.

"Not cause she likes us," he shrugged again, picking up the discarded blade. "She's lonely. She'll never admit it, but she bloody needs someone."

Faith arched her brow. "And that someone's you?"

"We're the only two left," the vampire grabbed a flier advertising an on-campus concert and used it to wipe the demon blood off his broadsword. "Charlie and Wes are dead, Angel disappeared…after the big throwdown, it was just me and her."

Silence fell upon the pair as they wandered the campus, puffing on their respective cigarettes. The awkwardness was palpable, even for Faith – who traditionally had a hard time with personal interaction. She'd always gotten along well with Spike, in their relatively few moments of true interaction, and he wasn't the source of the tension.

But seeing Illyria, knowing what she represented, seeing the look on Spike's face whenever the Old One was mentioned…Faith didn't know what to do with that. She had trouble reconciling the fact that she felt the way she did about someone she'd never really known. Was it Fred's connection to Wesley, to Angel? Did Faith feel weird because she knew what Illyria's arrival had done to people she held close to her heart?

Part of the reason Faith never articulated her feelings to anyone was the fact that half the time, she didn't even know what those feelings were herself.

Fortunately, a vampire emerged from the shadows, disturbing the Slayer's train of thought. She smiled when the pale creature lunged at her, ducking and holding her breath to avoid the stench of death. This one smelled worse than the others. She pivoted when the vampire hit the ground, snarling and bearing its fangs. Faith tightened her grip on the stake.

"Maybe you should floss," she quipped, leaning back when the vampire swung its fist. She grabbed the creature's arm and jutted her stake into its chest. "Not so scary with all that plaque."

The vampire exploded into a pile of dust. Faith brushed off her hands and turned to face Spike again, before her eyes lowered to the ground. Her cigarette had fallen out of her mouth during the brief scuffle, burning on its own in the grass.

"Fuck!" she growled, pocketing her stake and approaching Spike. She sighed and lowered her shoulders. "Guess it's that kinda night. Let's get the fuck outta here. This place gives me the wiggins."

* * *

><p><strong>September 2005 – Samantha Blanchard's Apartment<strong>

Samantha Blanchard's apartment would likely never be featured on HGTV; it was a spartan dwelling, housing the essentials. The detective barely spent any time between these walls; in a lot of ways, her desk at the precinct was more of a home than this place – which was outrageous, considering the rent she had to pay every month.

Two Chinese takeout boxes sat on the coffee table, a fork poking out of one and a pair of chopsticks stabbed into the other. Truth be told, Samantha tired of takeout, but her long hours and the stress of her job didn't lend themselves to cooking home-grown meals.

It didn't help that she had no one to cook for.

Having had her fill of noodles and greasy vegetables for the third night this week, Samantha downed the last of her beer before crossing into the kitchen to grab another. She cracked open the bottle and took a swig, the striped flannel shirt draped off her shoulders about two sizes too big. She stopped at the mantle across from her door, lighting a white candle in the center of the table.

To the right of the table was a closet, similar to the ones found in some hotel rooms. Basically a six-and-a-half foot tall wooden box that had a rack inside on which to hang clothes. Samantha swung the doors to that closet open, revealing an interior decorated with various photographs, documents, and a whiteboard littered with all manner of scribbles – some legible, others not so much.

In the center of the display was a name: Virginia Wilcox. The photograph just under the name was that of a woman who looked remarkably like Samantha: blonde hair tied back into a ponytail, rounded-off jaw, green eyes. She looked roughly 10 years older than Samantha was now, in that photograph.

Samantha paused to look at the photograph before grabbing a permanent marker off the dry erase board. Ripping off the cap, her left hand wandered over the board until the words "Faith Lehane" were sprawled out on the board in red. She underlined the name three times before stepping back and chewing on her lower lip.

The fact that the woman in question was, technically, an escaped convict wasn't the only reason Samantha was interested in her. The matter of Wolfram & Hart's interest in Faith was particularly vexing, but every time Samantha laid eyes on her name, she couldn't shake the pangs of familiarity.

Six years prior, Virginia Wilcox died. She had been the victim of a brutal attack, something so disgusting and sinister that authorities never truly figured out what had happened. It took weeks just to identify Virginia's body, and all attempts to track down her killer were unsuccessful.

Boston police weren't forthcoming on the matter, even to next-of-kin. Samantha, who at the time had begun pursuing her undergraduate degree at Michigan State University, heard about Virginia's murder on the news. It was so gruesome, so out of the ordinary, that it had made national headlines.

But no one seemed to know anything about Virginia, other than the fact that she was an English teacher in one of Boston's high schools. She hailed from Manchester, England and she attended school in London – though the name of the school was kept under wraps.

Virginia Wilcox led a life of secrecy, and her death seemed to match.

Three years ago, Samantha hit a dead end. Her contacts in England dried up, coinciding with an attack on a building connected to Virginia's school. Shortly after that, she heard of reports of an entire town in southern California being reduced to rubble – a massive earthquake turning Sunnydale into a massive crater.

Newspaper clippings scattered across the doors of the closet. There didn't appear to be a connection between Virginia's murder and what happened in Sunnydale, but for some reason, Samantha's gut told her there was something there. Maybe Faith was involved somehow.

Her rap sheet indicated she'd been to Sunnydale and Los Angeles. Samantha's research pointed to a services contract Ms. Lehane struck up with Wolfram & Hart in 2000 – an interesting nugget, considering that same firm practically wiped her record clean several months after she broke out of prison.

Her eyes browsed the board again, focusing on Faith's mugshot. What _was it_ about this woman? Why did Samantha's heart skip a beat and her stomach twist into knots every time she laid eyes on her?

The detective sighed, pulling out her phone, pressing a series of keys and placing the device on her ear. She was hoping to avoid making this phone call, but she really didn't have any other choice at this point. She flinched when the line picked up.

"Yes, I'd like to speak to Rupert Giles, please."

A beat.

"It's about my mother. Virginia Wilcox."

* * *

><p><strong>Boston, Massachusetts – March 1998<strong>

"Samantha, what in the _bloody hell_ is wrong with you?!"

Virginia Wilcox was so angry, she was shaking. She couldn't believe the audacity of her daughter, sneaking out of the house that late at night and putting herself in danger like that. The bruise just under the younger blonde's left eye was really starting to come in. Virginia considered making her an ice pack, but the anger took over again.

"You know _damn well_ not to follow me when I'm out after dark!" Virginia paced back and forth, glaring at her daughter. "It's dangerous! You could've been killed tonight!"

Samantha rolled her eyes, grimacing when the bruise forming on her left cheek howled in protest. She sat back on the sofa, arms crossed over her chest, the telltale sign of a petulant teenager. "Oh, rubbish…so I got a black eye. It's not my first."

Virginia closed her eyes, grabbing a bottle of scotch and pouring some into a shot glass. She downed the glass in one gulp, hissing as the alcohol burned down her throat. She poured another, holding onto it as she regarded her daughter once more.

"You're lucky the Slayer was there," Virginia lectured, finally downing the second shot. "Because God knows I can't fight those bloody things."

Samantha rolled her eyes again, ignoring the pain this time. "Right, your new pet. Wish I could go around stabbing things with pointy wooden sticks. Maybe then you'd notice me from time to time."

Those words stopped Virginia in her tracks, a pang of hurt stabbing her in the chest. Was that what all this was about? Was this why her daughter, who had never been in trouble a day in her life in their native England, was suddenly acting out? Sneaking about at night, getting in trouble at school…was it all just her way of rebelling, thinking her mother had found a new daughter?

Virginia sat in her chair, setting the empty shot glass on the floor. She heaved a heavy sigh, her eyes fixated on a small stain on the carpet. She couldn't remember what it was, or why it even popped into her head at that particular moment. All she knew was, her anger was gone and she couldn't quite bring herself to meet her daughter's steely gaze.

"Look," Virginia's voice was almost a whisper. "I know you didn't want to come to America. I know I'm out and about at all hours. I know I can't help you with your homework or do your hair or any of those things we used to do. But this—"

"—Is your job, your calling. I get it." Samantha huffed a sigh of her own. "You have to…save the world."

Silence fell between the two, and Virginia got up to fix her daughter an ice pack. The bruise was starting to get really big; before too much longer, her eye would be swollen shut. All things considered, though, Samantha was lucky to only have that bruise. A full-on vampire punch should've shattered bone.

"Why couldn't the Council have sent Mr. Wyndham-Pryce?"

Virginia laughed despite herself, shoveling ice into a Ziploc bag before handing it to her daughter. "Samantha, if you'd ever actually _met_ Wesley, then you'd understand why."

"I'm not here to look after a textbook," she continued, watching Samantha cringe when she first applied the ice pack to her cheek. "I'm dealing with an actual person. A teenage girl, not that much older than you. So on top of dealing with the typical trappings of being a teenager and an absolutely dreadful family life, she's having to adjust to her new destiny. As smart as he is, I doubt Mr. Wyndham-Pryce would be able to handle that.

"Being Head Boy only gets you so far."

Mother and daughter shared a laugh that died out almost as soon as it started. Samantha shifted in her seat, hissing in pain as the movement caused the ice pack to press harder against her cheek. "I'm sorry this has been so hard on you." Samantha almost didn't hear Virginia, and the supposed rebel inside her wanted to just wall up and not talk about this anymore.

Vulnerability was never Samantha's strength, and she was having a much harder time with it now that she found herself in another country. Boston was strange to her, and if she was being honest, she really missed waking up to the fog of Manchester every fall. She didn't care much for the locals clamoring for their Red Sox and that weird game with the wooden sticks.

Ugh…against with the wooden sticks.

"Maybe I should bring Faith over one night for dinner." Virginia offered. "Maybe meeting her will help."

* * *

><p><strong>Cleveland branch of Wolfram &amp; Hart – September 2005<strong>

Sonja Bishop rolled her eyes upon entering her office that she thought they'd pop out of their sockets. It was almost 11:00 at night, and she just got out of a meeting with a client interested in keeping their riches in another dimension protected from Uncle Sam. Her feet hurt, her stomach was growling, and quite frankly, there was a _Survivor_ marathon she was missing.

To top off her extraordinary evening, Kenneth McDonald had invaded her office.

"Don't you have an office of your own, Mr. McDonald?"

Kenneth shrugged, sitting on the armrest of one of Sonja's leather chairs, fiddling with a toy robot in his hands. The buttons on his coal-black suit jacket were undone, and the red tie hung loosely around his neck. He almost looked as if he was on his way to the bar for a nightcap. "Yeah, but it doesn't have one of these."

Sonja yanked the toy from his grasp, returning the robot to its place on the shelf. "Then maybe my nephew will get you one for your birthday."

Returning to her desk, Sonja flopped the stack of papers onto the surface with a huff and collapsed into her chair. She glanced at the monitor, despite her better judgment, and immediately regretted it. Inbox full – 234 new messages. Over half of them were from their immediate supervisor in Special Projects, Raymond Livingstone. Aside from Mr. McDonald, the last person in the world she wanted to talk to right now.

"What do you want, Ken?"

"Thought I'd save you the trouble of reading all of Ray's emails." He stood, his hands in his pockets as he approached her desk. He had a swagger about him that annoyed Sonja and thrilled the higher-ups at the Cleveland branch. The Senior Partners were high on the guy, not necessarily because he was better in a court room than anyone else, but because of who he was.

More specifically, who _his brother _was.

"The Senior Partners want the timetable moved." When Sonja arched her brows in a quizzical glance, he smirked and snaked his fingers through his dark brown hair. "On Desdemona. She's growing…impatient. Thinks we need to move tomorrow."

Sonja rolled her eyes and scoffed. The nerve of that vampire to lecture her on the importance of remaining patient and vigilant and waiting one's turn…only to turn around and tell her bosses that this project needed to be fast-forwarded. She wanted to send Ray a nasty email about it, but she knew it wouldn't do any good. Hell, if anything, it would get her demoted.

"Is that even possible?"

Again, Kenneth shrugged. "Sure…assuming you don't mind not seeing your own bed until Monday."

She stared at the ceiling and heaved a dramatic sigh. Not that she wasn't used to staying in her office overnight – there was a reason she made sure her sofa was a pull-out – but she had grown tired of this particular project. The sooner Desdemona resurrected her little minion and marched her _I'm-so-elegant_ ass back to England, the better.

Sadly, the Senior Partners didn't share Sonja's annoyance. They considered Desdemona a prized client; someone whose whims were to met on the spot, without any notice, no matter what. Her little project, coming on the heels of the disaster in Los Angeles, was one such instance.

In fact, the Senior Partners bought into her plan, seeing benefits on their end. The L.A. branch left several loose ends lying around, and the other branches had been scrambling trying to close them all – on top of conducting their own day-to-day business.

To say the masses were on the edge of their collective rope was an understatement.

"So let me get this straight," Sonja chewed on her lip and squinted. "Little Miss Vamps-a-lot wants us to resurrect her little boytoy, and now we have to do it tomorrow…why, exactly?"

A voice in the darkness startled them both. "Because I don't have as much time as I thought."

Kenneth jumped while Sonja rolled her eyes. At this point, she wondered why they even bothered putting locks on these doors, if people could just come and go as they saw fit with no consideration for anyone else's space. Sonja realized there were no secrets in this place, but would it kill someone to knock on her door before barging into her office?

"The original timeline did not account for the Slayer." Desdemona studied the robot sitting on Sonja's shelf, tilting her head to the side until her jet-black hair spilled over her right shoulder. "That, and I'm being followed."

The vampire gave Kenneth and Sonja the side-eye, the corners of her blood-red lips curling into a knowing smile. She seemed to glide along the floor until she was across from Sonja's desk, her lithe fingers on her hips. The air felt cooler around her, and Kenneth shivered. The oh-so-subtle shift in his posture caused the vampire's smile to grow.

She leveled a gaze at Sonja. "I apologize for the change in plans. But this won't work if I'm dust."

Sonja nodded, her steely gaze refusing to betray the seething hatred she felt for this client. She kept a stake in the top drawer, and she was tempted to grab it and finish this undead bitch once and for all. But Sonja knew she'd be dead before the drawer was open.

"Of course." She forced herself to agree before leaning forward in her chair. "Now tell me…who's following you?"

* * *

><p><strong>Downtown Cleveland – September 2005<strong>

Corbett Renfroe grunted, needing to use every bit of strength in his 55-year-old frame to extract the battle axe from the slain demon's skull. Raknar demons had notoriously thick skulls, and almost every weapon forged by man couldn't penetrate it. Fortunately for Corbett, he happened to have one of the few weapons that could.

Sometimes, having ties to the old Council had its benefits.

The stench of the demon's blood almost made Corbett gag, and he held the axe as far away from himself as he could while wiping the blade clean. Corbett blanched as he tossed the rag, now stained puke green, into a nearby dumpster. Setting the blade against a brick wall, Corbett paused to zip his black leather coat all the way.

The phone in Corbett's pocket buzzed. He frowned upon reading the message: _Endgame is now. Resurrection TOMORROW._

"Bloody hell…"


	5. Chapter 5: Belonging

**Toronto, Ontario, Canada – November 2002**

Corbett Renfroe was far more nervous than necessary. Then again, being a natural introvert meant meeting new people was sometimes a challenge for him – especially when he was a good bit older than them and he'd been sent to their door by a secretive international council that dealt with matters of the macabre and supernatural.

Yet here he stood, in a nondescript neighborhood on the outskirts of Toronto, knocking on the door of a 17-yar-old named Teresa Guerrero. The Council hadn't given him much more than that to go on, other than the fact that she was a Potential and there was this trend of Potentials being hunted down and killed worldwide.

So Corbett was, more or less, a babysitter. He sure as hell wasn't qualified to _protect_ anyone.

The door swung open, a black-haired girl with olive skin standing just a shade over five feet standing before him. Sweat coated her brow and a white towel hung over her shoulder. She cocked her head to the side, eyes narrowing.

"You don't look like a Jehovah's Witness."

Strange as it sounded, the joke was just the icebreaker Corbett needed. He shifted on his feet and laughed. "No, no…I'm, uh, my name is Corbett. Corbett Renfroe."

This part was always so awkward; introducing one's self to a Potential for the first time, explaining what the Council was and what all of this meant, where there was a real chance the Potential would have no idea what was what. Corbett realized, even as he spoke, that he likely sounded like someone who belonged in a padded room.

Understanding washed over the teenager's face, before she stepped back and motioned for Corbett to enter her home. "You're with the Council."

Flummoxed, Corbett stepped through the threshold. He glanced over his shoulder as Teresa shut the door, toweling off her face as she breezed past him. He watched as she tossed the towel onto the railing of the stairwell, grabbing an oversized t-shirt and pulling it on.

"You know of the Council."

"Mm." She sat on the couch, taking a swig from her plastic water bottle. "Guy named Travers called the other day. Gave me the Slayers 101 lecture, said they'd be sending someone over."

Corbett joined her in the living room, sitting in one of the chairs and placing his briefcase on the floor. The rest of his luggage getting lost somewhere between London and Toronto wound up being a blessing in disguise. He didn't really feel like lugging around all of his personal belongings while telling Teresa about her maybe-destiny.

"And…you believed him?"

"Not at first." She stared at the bottle in her hands. "But the nightmares…they're pretty vivid. Like, Dolby picture and sound vivid. So I did some poking around online, read a bunch of stuff that sounds like it came out of a Laurell K. Hamilton book, freaked the hell out…"

He knew he shouldn't have, but Corbett couldn't help but smile. He was a bit at ease, too; if she'd already taken the initiative to learn at least a little bit about all of this, then maybe this conversation wouldn't be as awkward as he feared.

"So I'm a Slayer."

Corbett cringed. "Not…quite." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You _could_ be. The Council sent me to…" He sighed; he hated talks like this. They felt more like lectures than anything, and if there was one thing Corbett hated when _he_ was a teenager, it was being lectured.

"…to teach you. Guide you."

"Protect me?"

He cringed again, trying to mask it as a smile. "If need be." He opened his briefcase, pulling out a notepad and pulling a pen out of the pocket inside his blazer. He clicked the pen before glancing up at Teresa again. "You…you mentioned nightmares."

Teresa nodded.

"I'm always someone different." She set the water bottle on the coffee table, letting herself sink into the couch. "I'm always fighting. Sometimes I win, sometimes I…"

Corbett nodded. She didn't really need to finish that sentence.

"Last night," she continued, "I had my neck snapped on a subway train. The night before that, I drowned in some underground tunnel. Before that, I jumped through some portal."

Teresa fell silent, for long enough that Corbett looked up from his notes and regarded her full-on. There was an edge to her features, lines that should never be on the face of a 17-year-old. If Corbett had to guess, they weren't all from the dreams, either. But he just got here, so he wasn't about to pry.

The teenager averted her gaze. "I was thinking of seeking help. Thought the dreams meant I was losing it." Teresa looked at Corbett. "But I'm not crazy…am I?"

"No." The Watcher sighed and reclined in the chair. "No, you're not."

* * *

><p><strong>Faith &amp; Woods' Apartment – September 2005<strong>

"The _fuck_?!"

Faith Lehane was beside herself, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the blank pages sprawled out before her. The Slayer ran shaky fingers through her brown locks, eyes darting back and forth over the paper. She'd opened the massive tome immediately upon returning to her apartment, only to be stunned and confused when her eyes were greeted with nothing.

Flipping through the pages, each one as blank as the last, Faith frowned. She collapsed against the back of the chair with a sigh, thinking back to what Nathaniel had told her. A template. He said the books were templates…capable of morphing into any text known to man.

The Slayer cursed herself for having forgotten that, though she had to admit she wasn't sure how to conjure anything. Was it as simple as…reciting the name of the text? Was there a spell involved? Did she need a key of some sort? Truth be told, there was only one way to find out.

"Um…" Faith swallowed. "_Moby Dick_…?"

Sure enough, with a soft _whoosh_, the text of Charles Dickens' classic appeared on the pages. The Slayer's eyes grew wide, and a grin played on the edges of her mouth. Faith leaned forward again, turning the page. This was so…fucking…cool…

"The Declaration of Independence."

Another _whoosh_.

The tale of the giant white whale was replaced with the document that colonists sent to the King to declare America's independence from Britain. Faith was so in awe over what she'd just discovered that she almost forgot the reason she took the template in the first place. Truth was, she wasn't sure this would even work. But if it did…

She sighed, cracking her knuckles to pump herself up. "Wesley." She blinked. "Wyndham-Pryce."

The _whoosh_ again filled the apartment before the Declaration was replaced by pages and pages of handwritten notes. Some were beyond legible; others were so neatly transcribed that Faith wondered if they'd been typed. Each entry was dated. One entry read March 1999. Another, February 2002. Yet another, April 2004.

Wesley's Watcher journals. His personal notes from Angel Investigations. Wolfram & Hart case logs. Every piece of research or intel Wesley Wyndham-Pryce had ever recorded, Faith now had at her fingertips.

_Orpheus_. Her heart skipped a beat when her eyes found that word, etched in all capital letters, underlined three times with a question mark. Faith's hand instinctively went to the side of her neck; if she paid enough attention, her fingertips could still find the marks where Angelus' fangs bore into her skin, puncturing her vein and having a taste.

So shook, was Faith, by that memory that she almost didn't notice the shuffling sounds coming from the living room. Having thought she was alone, Faith grabbed her stake from the coat hanging off her chair and slowly crept to her feet. She knew it wasn't a vampire, but the stake was the closest weapon handy.

Silently making her way into the living room, Faith's heart skipped a beat when she a woman around her height standing by the window. The woman was rail-thin, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail that went midway down her back. The Slayer tightened her grip on the stake, swallowing hard.

Before Faith could speak, the woman turned around – and once she saw her face, the familiarity hit Faith so hard that she lost the grip on her weapon. Winifred Burkle stood before her, eyes as wide as they were the night they'd met. Faith could hear the heartbeat thumping in her chest, and with adrenaline coursing through her veins, the Slayer lunged forward with a primal scream, bum-rushing the other woman until both bodies hurdled through the window and landed on the grass.

Broken shards of glass rained on the women as they struggled in the grass, Faith grunting and screaming as she pounded her left fist into the other woman's face. The first punch as so solid, Faith swore she felt a knuckle break. Brown hair was tinged blue now, and before Faith knew it, Illyria had grabbed her by the neck and tossed her back into the apartment.

Faith barely had time to react before her back slammed into the far wall in the living room, crying out in pain before crumpling onto the floor. She looked up in time to see Illyria step back into the apartment, shards of glass embedded in her hair. Before the Slayer could get back up, Illyria grabbed her by the neck and lifted Faith off the ground.

"I am not what I once was." There was an edge to the Old One's words, evident even as Faith gasped and clawed at the fingers on her windpipe. "But I can still squash you like the insignificant bug you are."

Illyria again threw Faith against the wall, as if the Slayer were little more than a ragdoll. Faith coughed as she struggled to regain her bearings, her vision blurry and blood oozing from her nose. The Slayer cringed and doubled over; at least two ribs were broken. She rolled onto her back, fighting for breath, her body crying out in pain with every intake of oxygen.

Illyria stood over Faith, glancing into the kitchen before returning her cold, lifeless gaze. "Where did you get that?"

Faith coughed, squeezing her eyes shut. When they opened again, Fred's visage had returned.

"Faith." This voice was so much softer. So full of concern and hope. ""Where did you get that book?"

Grabbing a shard of glass, Faith growled and hurled the makeshift weapon at the other woman. It sliced her cheek before Illyria returned, the blood on her skin immediately drying up as the cut healed.

"What's it to you?!" Faith could barely get onto her knees, the pain in her side was so bad. She could feel the bone starting to heal; to this day, that sensation was still one of the most unnerving things about being a Slayer. She appreciated the fact that she healed so much faster than normal people, but Faith knew that meant actually _feeling_ her body stitching itself back together.

It was not a pleasant experience.

"What do you care, what…what happened to Wes?" The anger had left Faith's voice; now, there was a pain she was desperately trying to hide, but given the physical pain, she knew it wasn't working. "You gut the love of his life, and you've got the fucking _gall_ to act sad when he's gone…"

Illyria's head jerked to the side, that awkward movement that made Faith flinch every time she saw it. The blue-haired demon's steps were still stiff, disjointed – as if she were still growing accustomed to the body she had inhabited.

"This vessel was not my choice. It is tiny. And frail." Illyria dropped to a knee next to the Slayer, her eyes narrowing. Was there hurt in them? "But it is what I have. Wesley helped me…grow accustomed to this world."

But…" Faith spat blood onto the carpet. "_Why?!_"

* * *

><p><strong>Downtown Cleveland – September 2005<strong>

Samantha Blanchard felt kind of foolish.

For years, Cleveland authorities had scoped the abandoned warehouse on Ontario and Rockwell, convinced it was the base of operations for a drug ring. The narcotics unit raided the place two years ago and found nothing. Still, there were rumors…well, more like whispers that disappeared as soon as they rose to the surface.

Still, despite there never being any evidence, Samantha – and everyone else in the city who carried a badge – was certain something nefarious was going on here.

But as it turned out, this warehouse was actually a secret installation for her mother's employer. A combination safe house and communications hub. The detective entered the main room, her eyes dancing over rows upon rows of books, many of which wore a layer of dust on their spines.

In many ways, it was just like Virginia Wilcox's personal library. Just…bigger.

Even in the relative din of the room, Samantha saw the 60-inch plasma display propped up on the wall. She crossed to the table in front of it, making a mental note of the books. There were three of them, but judging by the empty space between the first and second volumes, she guessed there were supposed to be four. It wasn't her most pressing concern at the moment, but the detective figured a missing book might be something the Council wanted to know about.

The screen illuminated, and Samantha recoiled, using her left arm to shield her eyes. A little warning would've been nice. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the light, the blank screen gave way to the office of Rupert Giles; the namesake sitting in a black leather chair, glasses clutched between his teeth as he jotted something into a notepad.

Samantha cleared her throat…and had to suppress a smile when Giles jumped.

"Oh." He fumbled with his glasses before placing them on the bridge of his nose again. "Detective Blanchard."

"Good evening, Mr. Giles."

"Um, apologies." The Watcher frowned, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. "I'm still getting used to being five hours ahead."

"Faith Lehane." Samantha took a step forward, deciding it was best for forgo the pleasantries and get right down to the reason she was calling. "Should I be concerned?"

"Absolutely not."

Samantha was struck by how quickly Giles answered her, and how resolute he seemed. She took an extra moment to study his features. The steadiness in his gaze. The way his shoulders relaxed when she mentioned the Slayer's name…as if the familiarity of the topic at hand had put him at ease.

"You're sure."

"Detective." Giles removed his glasses again. "Whatever you have on her, I assure you that it is ancient history. Well…as ancient as you can get when you haven't yet hit 30."

"Then why did one of _your_ operatives burst into my interrogation room the other night posing as an attorney in order to break her out?" Samantha folded her arms over her chest, leveling an accusatory gaze at the Watcher. "I know about Mr. Wood."

Giles heaved a weary sigh, placing his glasses on the desk.

"What's going on, Rupert?" She pressed forward. "What are they doing in my city?"

"What do you know about Sunnydale?"

The detective frowned, unfolding her arms and stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "Small town in California leveled by an earthquake. So what?"

"It wasn't an earthquake."

Samantha was stunned into silence. If it wasn't an earthquake, then…what in the world could level an entire town like that? An attack of some sort would've been on the news. Come to think of it, though…she'd remembered reading about the town being evacuated in the days prior. It seemed strange then, but it was even more so now.

"Detective Blanchard…" Giles cringed at the formality of it. He'd been friends with Samantha's mother; referring to her only daughter in such a regimented manner didn't sit well with him. Then again, he was an ocean away, so it was probably just as well. "Are you familiar with the Hellmouth?"

Samantha shook her head. She never remembered her mother mentioning it. Then again, Virginia Wilcox always tried her best to shield Samantha from the details of her work. Something about _this is not for a teenager's eyes_…never mind the fact that she always spoon-fed that other teenage girl all of those gory details.

Taking Samantha's silence as a "no," Giles sat up a little straighter. "The Hellmouth is a…center of mystical convergence. Demons are drawn to them. Sunnydale was right on top of one. Faith and Mr. Wood were part of a coordinated effort to close the Hellmouth."

Samantha's frown deepened. "But what does that have to do with—" Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened as the realization dawned on her. The detective took a step back, folding her arms over her chest again.

"Bloody hell…there's one of those _here_?!"

Giles cleaned an imaginary smudge off his glasses before putting them on again with a sigh. "There is." He shook his head. "Several throughout the world. Moscow. Cairo. Somewhere in Africa. All of which have been more active since the Sunnydale incident."

Samantha nodded. "So Faith and Mr. Wood are reinforcements."

Realization washed over Giles' face as he removed his glasses again and set them off to the side on his desk. He leaned forward, glancing over his shoulder. It was plenty late there, but Giles had to check to make sure they had adequate privacy.

Old habits and all.

"You've made contact with her."

Samantha nodded. "I found her at a particularly gruesome crimes scene with weapons on her." The detective shrugged, tearing her gaze away for a moment. "She was a suspect."

"And now?"

The silence was practically deafening, and Giles couldn't help but notice how Samantha was doing everything she could not look at him. He frowned at that, wondering what was going on in her mind. He remembered Virginia telling him that her daughter had struggled with the move to America, that there was tension relating to Virginia's Slayer, but that was…how long ago?

"Samantha."

The detective flinched at the use of her first name, a vulnerability etching into her face before she cleared her throat and took a step away from the monitor. She didn't like knowing Rupert could see right through her from an ocean away.

Damn modern technology…

Understanding washed over Giles' face. "She doesn't know who you are."

Samantha shrugged. "Just a cold-hearted bitch of a cop."

"A word of advice, detective." There he went, going all formal again. "Tell her."

She tried to keep her expression neutral, unsure if she succeeded. "Why?"

"Closure." He smiled when Samantha furrowed her brow at him. "I would imagine you both are lacking in that regard when it comes to your mother. You have to understand, Detective, Faith loved your mother. She didn't have a family, and Virginia was closest she had to one."

Samantha knew that revelation was supposed to make her feel better, but it had the exact opposite effect. In fact, it exacerbated all of the insecurities she felt when she was a teenager, that she was being replaced by this mystery girl who was abnormally proficient with sharpened pencils.

She hated the feeling then, and she didn't care for it now.

"Please, Rupert." She shook her head. "How long has it been? And considering I have her file…I'd say she has more pressing concerns than my late mother."

Giles frowned at that. "You're going to keep an eye on her, aren't you?"

"I'd be a pretty shoddy cop if I didn't."

"My word's not good enough for you." Giles nodded. "Nor should it be." The Watcher put on his glasses again, staring at Samantha above his black frames. "But at some point, you're going to have to confront the tension between you, because she is someone you want in your corner."

"Better her in my corner than me in her crosshairs."

"Wise words, Detective." Giles gave a humorless smile. "Give her a chance. She might surprise you."


End file.
